


Destiny May Ride With Us

by Ellie_Rosie



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Dragons, Dysfunctional Family, Fantasy, Fate, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 118,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9337889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie_Rosie/pseuds/Ellie_Rosie
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov spent the first twenty seven years of his life waiting for something exciting to happen. And then, it did.AU in which Yuuri is a little bit more than human, someone seems to be stealing all of Viktor's spoons, and Yurio is the only person who thinks this is all rather strange.





	1. Strays

 

The stars were constellating in clusters of three, forming diamante ellipses and, if Viktor had been in the mood for looking up, he would have perhaps thought _what if what if what if._ But it had been a long time since Viktor Nikiforov had looked at the stars. 

It was a cold night in St Petersburg, particles of ice in the air forming fangs that bit into Viktor’s cheeks, bleeding them red. The cold was still – no breeze, not even a breath – and it was like striding through water, swathes of frigid air pushing glacially against him with every step. Viktor pulled his scarf tighter around himself, flexed his gloved hands, tried to make himself shrink inside his all-encompassing slate blue coat. It was a trench coat, and had cost him more than most of the furniture in his house, but he liked the theatrics of it, the way it swept around his ankles, swooshed with the slightest movements. Besides, the colour bought out his eyes. Simple pleasures. 

So there Viktor Nikiforov was, a man who wore trench coats and didn’t look at the stars, meandering down a serpentine back alley to get home after a long day at the office, when he tripped over something. Something heavy and solid and _groaning_. It was the wet-soft sound creaking from the obstacle that had felled him that lead Viktor from thinking _shit that hurt_ to _shit that’s a person_.

Viktor had hit the cobblestones hard, but the realisation that there was a strange man passed out just yards from his front door hit him even harder, and maybe it was wrong but a thrill of _something exciting_ rattled through his veins. On his knees, Viktor looked over the strange man slumped there on his side, curved inwards like the stem of a dying flower. They had done a compulsory first aid course at work, and he knew he shouldn’t touch the man lest he inflict further damage, but he couldn’t help it. The man was _beautiful_. There was simply no other word to sum it up so succinctly; the strange man lying unconscious just yards from Viktor Nikiforov’s house was _beautiful_. Ethereal. Otherworldly. A creature of angles and softness. Viktor found his fingertip, quite of its own accord, tracing down the side of the man’s jaw – only to instantly pull away. The man was so cold that to touch him was to burn. This puzzled Viktor, for the man appeared to be well wrapped-up; all in streamlined black, and it seemed to be leather he was incarcerated in and leather is good for keeping warm. He even had gloves, albeit fingerless ones, and black combat boots fastened amongst a mess of buckles and straps. Briefly, Viktor wondered if the man was perhaps a criminal, someone dangerous, but then he looked at that sharp-soft face and realised _no, of course not_. The face was incongruous with the body, or at least with what the body was trying to be. 

Viktor reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone – calling an ambulance, he had remembered, was the correct thing to do in such a situation. He snatched his gloves off and started to punch the number in, but he got stopped on the _0_ of _103_. Stopped by an electric shock of cold as a hand wrapped limply around his wrist, each icy fingertip a pinprick. Viktor dropped his phone and only dully registered the _curaack_ of the screen splintering. But how could he notice anything when a man (or was he a boy? Viktor couldn’t quite be sure) carved of ice was looking up at him with eyes like that? Eyes like warm, whiskey light shone through an amethyst, both open and opening. Earnest. Impossibly old but at the same time innocent. Honey-and-chocolate. Viktor knew it was impossible, but he was sure that those eyes were _touching_ him in some kind of metaphysical sense. So instead of asking the man-boy’s name or saying something like _it’s okay you’re going to be alright_ , Viktor just gawped at him in the same way a cat might look at a mouse. Apart from, in this situation, Viktor felt himself far more empathetic toward the mouse. 

The hand around his wrist slipped down to his palm, pressed something into it. A slip of paper, English words carved into it in a slipping, jutting scrawl. _My name is Yuuri. I need your help. Don’t take me to the hospital._  

The man watched Viktor as he read, Viktor could feel the oppressive intensity of his gaze, and when Viktor nodded, the man – Yuuri – let himself collapse back down onto the cobbles. The tension drained out of Yuuri and if Viktor had to choose one word to describe the expression on this strange stranger’s face, it would have been contentment or, perhaps, relief. 

For a moment, Viktor simply did nothing. _You can’t take him home he could be a serial killer for all you know_. But then he peeled off his beloved trench coat and carefully parcelled Yuuri up in it, not caring how cold it made him himself because here was a man who was nothing more than a boy so tired, so injured, so _something bad_ that he was content to just fall asleep on the uneven cobbles of some grotty St Petersburg alley. _Besides,_ Viktor thought, _he has such nice eyes._  

And so Viktor, who had never been known for having an abundance of common sense, heaved the man-boy up into his arms. He paused as Yuuri started to shift, slow as sunrise, pushing his nose against the warmth of Viktor’s chest. If someone had asked Viktor if he believed in love at first sight, he would have said _maybe_. However, if someone had asked Viktor if he believed in love at first nose-to-chest nuzzle, he would have said _hell yes._

  

* * *

 

“Who the _fuck_ is that?” 

Viktor looked up innocently from where he was sat, perched on the edge of the sofa. He’d bundled Yuuri up in a mountain of blankets, lit a fire in the grate for the first time since moving to his humble abode (he’d kept logs stocked purely for aesthetic value), and was currently fussing over his new lodger. He kept stroking a hand through Yuuri’s hair, unable to get enough of the sleek softness, like sun-heated tropical sand slipping through his fingers, like water. Vaguely, he had considered that Yuuri may perhaps _not_ appreciate being fawned over by someone he didn’t even know; these fears were laid to rest, however, when Yuuri had pressed softly against the touch and made a sound not too dissimilar to a purr. Makkachin too, seemed smitten; she was curled up atop Yuuri’s legs, her head resting on his knees, eyes wide and open and inquisitive but unmoving from the newcomer’s face. Not watching, but watching over. Guarding.

“Ah, Yuri!” Viktor beamed up at the slight, jutting teenager stood in the doorway. “We have a new housemate.” 

Yuri tossed his head and strode forward, leading with the arrow of his chin. He looked down over Viktor’s latest obsession, his blond hair forming a sharp sort of curtain about the gentle round of his cheeks as he leant over. Next to him, Viktor could feel Yuuri breathing. It was steady, like a slow drift of snow feathering down to Earth. Viktor found his eyes magnetised to Yuuri’s chest, to the rise-and-fall of it. It was calming. Peaceful. So cardinally _nice_. 

“Where did you find him?” Yuri’s voice was a sneer and it jolted Viktor, somewhat violently, out of his reverie. 

“Outside. In the alley.” Viktor watched Yuuri’s hand on his chest, the way it twitched just slightly, and he found himself aching to reach out and hold it. He didn’t, deciding that stroking a sleeping stranger’s hair was enough creepiness for one day. “I think he’s sick. He gave me a note. Here.” He handed the note – which he had folded up in his pocket – to Yuri. “It says that-” 

“His name is Yuuri and not to take him to a hospital.” Yuri rolled his eyes. “My English is better than yours, old man.” Viktor reached to take the note back, but Yuri tucked it into his trouser pocket. “He can’t stay here.” 

“Why not?” Viktor blinked, his mouth shrinking down to a small 'o' of surprise - Yuuri  _not_ staying hadn't really crossed his mind.

“Because you don’t know the first thing about him.” Yuri planted his hands firmly on his hips, his face creasing into an apocalyptic scowl. Maybe, Viktor thought, he would have looked threatening – if only he weren’t a particularly short fifteen-year-old who, Viktor knew, still slept with a soft toy tucked firmly under his arm. “I know how this ends, old man. We go to sleep tonight and we wake up dead, all because you can’t say no to a pretty face.” 

“See, you didn’t give me this little spiel when I took _you_ in, Yurochka.” Viktor tore his eyes from Yuuri to his teenage charge, his gaze softening like butter left out in the sun. Sometimes, when he looked at Yuri in the right light, he could still see the preteen who had trailed after him through the streets of St Petersburg, always staying just far enough away to hide should Viktor turn around. It had gone on for little over a week before Viktor had asked Yuri why he wasn’t in school, where his parents were. And just like that, Yuri Plisetsky had found himself a home, and Viktor Nikiforov had found himself a family. “I showed you some kindness when you needed it the most, and now we are going to do the same for him.”

“It’s not the same thing, Viktor.” Whilst his voice was still hard, it was a stodgy kind of hardness, and Yuri was looking away, unable to meet Viktor’s open, warm smile. “I was _eleven_ when you took me in. I was a kid. This, _Yuuri,_ is a grown-up. I’m not going to pander to your hero complex. Do you know what? I should have known when you took in a random waif that you were unhinged. I should have _known_.” 

“That’s a bit unfair.” 

“Is it? I don’t think it is. We’re not keeping him.” 

“No, we’re not. _I_ am. And I don’t really see what it’s got to do with you.” 

Yuri spluttered, spinning to dart Viktor with a sharp glare of incredulity. 

“This has _everything_ to do with me. This.” Yuri blinked, the action as soft as a snowflake. Viktor noticed his younger friend’s hands clenching and unclenching and it sounded like _fight or flight._ “This is my _home_.” 

 _Oh_. The thought trickled into Viktor’s mind like dawn dew. _He’s jealous._  

It was easy for Viktor to forget how young Yuri really was. Of course, he knew that Yuri was _fifteen_ , but that was something hard to quantify in real terms. Viktor had never had any siblings, nor any other kind of child to look after before Yuri had traipsed into his life, and other than the slight swell of puppy fat on Yuri’s cheeks that glowed whenever he smiled in the way he did when something _truly_ delighted him, there was nothing to remind Viktor that Yuri was not, in fact, an adult, no matter how much the teenager might like to act the part. 

“I know,” Viktor breathed the words. “I know this is your home, Yurochka. It always will be. You know that, don’t you?” The only reply he got was a stiff, harsh nod from Yuri, who was gazing studiously at the carpet. “But homes get bigger and better the more people there are in them.” 

Silence reached out, forming a bridge between the sofa and where Yuri was stood a foot or so away from it, a lone island. The fire spat and crackled in the background, telling stories in flames and ash. Viktor kept his eyes on Yuri, trying to decipher exactly what it was that the teenager was thinking but, as with myriad prior attempts, Viktor could read nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Yuuri’s hand twitch again and it felt like an invitation, so Viktor took it. 

“There’s nothing I can say to talk you out of this, is there?” Yuri dropped himself down into an armchair like a stone, crossing one leg haughtily over the other. “Just know that if he murders me, I’m _so_ coming back to haunt your ass.” 

 

* * *

 

The next day, Viktor called in sick to work, hacking out fake coughs down the telephone. He’d considered having Yuri stay home from school just in case he needed a hand in nursing Yuuri back to health, but upon Viktor suggesting it Yuri had sprinted straight out of the front door. It was a testament as to how quickly the teenager had left that he’d left his packed lunched (lovingly crafted by Viktor’s own fair hands) stranded on the kitchen counter.

So there Viktor was, sat cross-legged on the carpet, next to the sofa, face-to-face with Yuuri, who was still asleep. Makkachin was next to Viktor, and the two of them kept a silent vigil over this new enigma, over this sliver of excitement dilating their otherwise mundane lives. It felt as though everything had been washed in grey and now, all of a sudden, there was a splash of technicolour flecked through everything. Viktor hadn’t realised how grey things had gotten until he’d seen the amethyst-brown of Yuuri’s eyes the night before. He felt _young_ again. Like there was more to life than _just this_. 

He reached out to press a palm over Yuuri’s forehead, and frowned. The younger man still felt so very cold and it only just hit Viktor that Yuuri wasn’t shivering. _I should call someone. I’m not a doctor and I should call someone but who do you call when you can’t call an ambulance?_ Not for the first time, Viktor considered throwing caution to the wind and taking Yuuri to the hospital, but every time he moved to act on this idea, something white-hot shot through him, and Makkachin growled. And then he’d look at that lovely, gentle sharp-soft face and think _I can look after him. He needs me._  

His palm flat against Yuuri’s forehead, Viktor sighed. Did it feel just a little bit warmer? Viktor thought so, but it was still abnormally frosty. He shut his eyes for a moment, exhausted down to his bones, and when he opened them again he found a set staring right back at him, wide as an open book with a broken spine. Unblinking. 

“Hello.” Remembering the language of the note, Viktor spoke in English. He smiled brightly because, of course, this was an exciting sort of love story, and Viktor knew precisely what happened when the princess (or, rather, prince) was woken by a prince. “I’m Viktor Nikiforov. You’re at my house.” Makkachin, too, barked her greeting. “It’s safe here.” 

The smile plummeted from Viktor’s face, however, when Yuuri shot up to be in a curved, caving sort of sitting position, his knees forming a castle and his arms forming a helmet. He didn’t look scared, so to speak, but defensive. Still in the leather gear that Viktor had found him in, it wouldn’t have been a far stretch to think him dangerous. Viktor didn’t, though – he thought him vulnerable, confused, and probably in need of a good hug. 

He did not hug Yuuri, however, but dropped back down onto the carpet. He held his hands out – he wasn’t entirely sure why, just that he’d seen it in movies whenever the hero was trying to approach a scared, potentially hostile, animal. Beside him, Makkachin’s tail turned into a fan. She let out a happy little _yip_. That was all it took for Yuuri to unfold himself from the back, to poke his head out up over his arms. There was something slick, cool, _serpentine_ about his movements. Viktor came to the conclusion that he must be a fantastic dancer. 

Viktor watched in bemusement as his dog pottered up to the sofa, licked at this perfect stranger’s face, pawed at his arms. She was rewarded by Yuuri opening up further, tentatively reaching out to tap her nose as though to double check she was not some kind of mirage.

“That’s Makkachin,” Viktor offered, maybe feeling a touch left out. “She’s my baby girl.” 

For a moment, Viktor thought he’d shattered the beautifully fragile scene; Yuuri had paused mid-unfurl and was looking straight at him, his stare cold enough to burn (although, Viktor thought, he might happily burn at the hands of someone like Yuuri, someone mysterious and gorgeous and _exciting_ ). But then Yuuri nodded and turned back to Makkachin, pulsing his long, thin fingers through her corkscrew curls. She tried to lick at his hands, the wet tickle surprising a light, airy glisten of a sound from Yuuri that confirmed for Viktor what he already knew; he was, well and truly, caught.

He watched the two of them, Makkachin and Yuuri, and felt a smug sense of satisfaction swell up in him. _I’ve never seen Makkachin like this around a stranger. He must be a good guy._ He watched as Yuuri scratched behind her ears, as Makkachin pressed her paws over his torso in a motherly sort of are-you-hurt way, as Yuuri opened up and _smiled_. 

“ _Ma-kka-chin_ ,” Yuuri sounded the name out, and then nodded to himself. “Makkachin. Baby girl.” She licked at his chin and Yuuri lit up like a firework. Viktor felt something jolt from his chest up into his throat. “Good dog. Viktor’s dog.” Yuuri nodded again, to himself, earnestly. Keeping one hand curling through Makkachin’s fur, he turned his attention to Viktor. “You are Viktor.” 

“Yes. Yes, that’s me.” Viktor found that his mouth had gone quite dry, like the billowing, baked insides of a hot air balloon. It was in the way Yuuri said his name – with the spice kick-flick of the _or_. “I’m Viktor.” 

“I know.” Yuuri blinked, his eyelashes forming small halos against his cheeks. “Where am I?” 

“At my house.” 

“No, which country?” His voice was whimsically soft. Viktor tracked his eyes as they wandered around the living room – stopping off at the television, the armchair, a photograph of Yuri trussed up in a suit and glaring venomously at the camera for the agony of it. “I’m in Europe, yes?” 

“Yes, um. Russia. You’re in Russia. St Petersburg, to be exact.” Viktor frowned. “How can’t you know what _country_ you’re in?” 

Yuuri blinked at Viktor, looking very much like a toddler caught trying to steal some chocolate before dinner. He focused his attention back onto Makkachin, and Viktor got the vague impression that he had perhaps hurt the other man’s feelings. 

“I’m a long way from home,” Yuuri breathed out after a pause that, to Viktor, could have been an eternity. 

There seemed to be something profoundly sad, mournful, about Yuuri’s face, in his eyes, in the way he held his head, and it caused an ache to tug at Viktor. It was a feeling he hadn’t had in years, not since Yuri had gone through a patch of having bad dreams as a younger teen. He found himself very much wanting to hug the other man, to cradle him close and tuck him back together. So Viktor, in all of his infinite wisdom, decided he was going to do just that. 

Without any kind of warning, he gusted up onto the sofa and reached to pull Yuuri in for a hug. Only for Makkachin to vault up in between the two men, her two front paws pushing somewhat forcefully down at her master’s shoulders. Looking around her, Viktor could see Yuuri was stroking calmingly at her back, a whitewash of a smile on his face as he gazed down at his knees. 

“I don’t like hugs,” Yuuri supplied after a moment. He nodded and Makkachin hopped off of the sofa, in favour of searching out her food bowl in the kitchen. All Viktor could do was blink, open-mouthed. “Does anyone else live here?” 

“A kid.” Viktor caught himself and shook his head; he’d already fluffed his first impression, but it wasn’t too late to salvage it. “Not _my_ kid. Just, _a_ kid. You know. A child. A teenager. He’s called Yuri too.” 

“Is he your brother?” Yuuri tilted his head to the side, something about the curious expression fundamentally endearing. 

“Something like that.” Viktor swallowed. “What about you? Do you have any family? You can’t be much older than, what, eighteen? There must be someone out there looking for you.”

“I’m twenty-three.” Yuuri’s voice came out as morning frost, and then fizzled to a drizzle with, “And no. I don’t. It’s just me.” The younger man blinked as though his words had surprised him, had stumbled out of his mouth. Something in his right cheek twitched, the prelude to an earthquake. “I. I’m on my own.” 

“No.” Viktor shifted ever so slightly closer to Yuuri, not close enough to be touching but close enough to be felt. A wet noise bubbled in the back of Yuuri’s throat and it sent a blunt throb through Viktor; he didn’t understand the situation, not fully, and he didn’t even _really_ know Yuuri, but he did know and understand that all he wanted was to make Yuuri happy. He didn’t want Yuuri to ever be sad. The harshness of buttoned-in sobs didn’t suit the curve of Yuuri’s cheeks, the sharp edge of tears didn’t match the amethystine smoke of his irises. “No, Yuuri. You’re not on your own. I’m here. Maybe that’s not worth a lot to you – you don’t know me – but there’s something about you.” Viktor shook his head. The depth, the sincerity of his own voice unsettled him. He wasn't sure if he'd ever meant something so profoundly. “Just, know that you’re not alone. I’m here.” 

An arctic breeze whispered down Viktor’s neck, tickling him into a shiver. He did exactly what it told him to do; he put his arm loosely around Yuuri’s shoulders. For a split second Yuuri went glacially rigid, but then he thawed and melted into Viktor’s side. It didn’t resemble trust or affection or even relief, Viktor thought, but was more like a stray kitten taking shelter from the rain. _He must still be sick._ Yuuri’s incandescent iciness caressed Viktor’s spine, seeped through the gaps between his ribs. 

Makkachin pottered back through, her tail swaying back and forth. She pressed her nose against Yuuri’s knee and, silently, Viktor thanked her. Yuuri’s fingers found her corkscrews and a smile sighed to his lips. 

“You don’t know anything about me, Viktor Nikiforov.” 

“I know that your name is Yuuri. You have brown eyes that change colour in the light, like the rockpools I used to play in on holiday, as a kid. I know you have black hair that feels like feathers. I know you’re twenty-three years old. I know you’re going through something rough.” As Viktor spoke, pink touched at the peaks of Yuuri’s cheeks. _Adorable_. “And I know that Makkachin _loves_ you. I trust her judgement. So you can stay. For as long as you want.” 

Viktor had questions, _so many questions_ , but they could wait. Viktor was needed and that, in turn, was exactly what Viktor himself needed.

 

* * *

 

A warm, doughy smell wafted through from the kitchen, with earthy undertones and a counterpoint of green freshness. The tap-dance of a knife on a chopping board made a Morse code beat for the frothy bubble of a pan up high on the hob; the lyrics to this culinary song were muttered Russian, a stabbing shadow of a sound as Yuri had serious discourse with himself as to precisely _why_ he’d let Viktor talk him into cooking dinner. For the _three_ of them. 

Breathing in the scents that swirled together to make something mouth-watering, Viktor was stood sentinel over the couch. Yuuri had, several hours previously, fallen back to sleep. He still felt cold, like an iceberg wrapped in leather, but every time Viktor had placed a blanket over him he had kicked it off – one time nearly kicking Viktor’s face in the process. So all Viktor could do was watch him toss and turn, but not shiver. If there was one thing that unnerved Viktor about this whole bizarre situation, it was that Yuuri wasn’t _shivering_. He didn’t want to say it was _unnatural_ , but that was the word that kept slipping through to the front of his mind. 

A frost spoke its secrets against the patch of skin were Viktor’s hair met his neck, and he immediately knew that Yuuri was awake. He just _did_. But just to check, Viktor scanned the younger man’s face – sure enough, Yuuri’s eyelids were flickering open and one hand, still encased in a fingerless leather glove, was pushing a tidal wave of black hair back. It was absurd, but Viktor found himself jealous of that hand. 

“Oi, losers,” came a growl – in English on behalf of the newcomer – from the kitchen, “dinner is ready. _Bon_ fucking _appetit_.” 

Yuuri heaved himself to his feet, and Viktor was by his side in a flash, arms out as though to catch the younger man who seemed to be doing his best baby Bambi impression. Yuuri did not fall, however. He shut his eyes – loosely, no creases – and took a deep breath, as though he were trying to inhale the essence of the place. For all Viktor knew, he was. When Yuuri’s eyes opened, there was more amethyst in them than whiskey, and he strode easily, _confidently_ , to the kitchen, not before throwing Viktor a _thanks-but-no-thanks_ sort of smile. Viktor followed after the younger man, wrapping his arms around himself. _I think we’ll have to have the heating on tonight._  

Sitting around the kitchen table – a big, round, oak thing that Viktor had rescued from a skip, proclaiming it to be the epitome of _shabby chic_ with its chipped white paint – was a wholly uncomfortable, totally awkward experience for all involved. Only, Viktor expressed this by chattering out every word known to man, and it manifested in Yuri as glares of the utmost malevolence. Yuuri, however, was an open book; he kept his eyes down on his plate, and the only noise he made was the soft squeak of his (also reclaimed) chair as he fidgeted. 

“I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before!” Viktor slapped his hand down on the table, hard enough to make their cutlery rattle. “There’s two of you now. Two Yuris.” He pointed his fork at Yuri, whose jaw was set so tight that it would be a miracle if he hadn’t managed to grind his teeth down into nothingness. “So I’ll have to give you a nickname!” 

“ _What?_ How’s that fair?” Yuri pushed his chair away from the table with the force of his slouch, crossing his arms tightly over his chest like he was trying to cage in his fury. “I was here first.” 

“ _Yurochka_ ,” Viktor continued, blissfully deaf to any dissent, “is too long. It’s inconvenient.” 

“ _You’re_ inconvenient.” The grumble came from within a thick curtain of fairydust blond, and Viktor caught Yuuri’s eye as his new lodger blossomed into an amused quirk of the lips, not quite a smile.

“I know!” Viktor slapped the table again, victorious. “Yurio! See? I’ve taken the _o_ of Yurochka, and added it to Yuri. _Yurio_!”

“Call me that and I’ll slit your throat as you sleep.” 

“ _Yurio_. It’s perfect! Isn’t it perfect, Yuuri?” Viktor’s voice frilled on the _ee_ and it seemed to tickle the addressed, because Yuuri let out a breath of laughter as he nodded. Viktor threw him a wink – maybe that was their currency, looks and laughs and blushes and winks – and he whacked his smile up to a blinding obnoxiousness as he turned to the newly-appointed Yurio. “So it’s agreed then. We have Yuuri, and Yurio. Crisis averted.” 

Yurio blew his hair out of his face just enough to gravel out, “ _you’re_ the crisis.” 

Yuuri watched, head tilted, baffled, as Viktor ruffled a hand semi-roughly through the teenager’s hair. He’d never seen any such behaviour, and it confused him. Was Viktor _hurting_ Yurio? No. No, that definitely wasn’t the case. If it had been, Yuuri would have instinctively put an immediate halt to it. But it wasn’t sparring either. It looked nice though, Yuuri thought, like stitches pulling together. It looked like how Yuuri imagined warm would feel. 

“Hey, Yuuri,” Viktor pouted, Yurio’s hands pressed against the older man’s face as he tried to force away the wholly unwarranted attack on his hair, “why aren’t you eating?”

“Oh. I. I’m sorry.” Yuuri looked down at his plate. Although he’d cut the food – a pillow of pastry stuffed with meat and vegetables – into small chunks, he hadn’t actually eaten any of it. “I still feel a little unwell.”

Before Yuuri could duck out of the way, Viktor was hugging his palm against the younger man’s forehead. He frowned; _how can he still be so cold oh god what if he’s dying I don’t want him to die._  

“You’re _freezing._ I’ll make you a hot water bottle.” 

“ _No_.” Yuuri’s eyes caught Viktor’s, and how had Viktor ever thought they were brown because now they were definitely a murky sort of purple, fluid and moving. “No, thank you. I like the cold.” 

The look of hurt, of but-I-want-to-help, staining Viktor’s face forced Yuuri to look down to his plate. Only, his plate wasn’t there anymore; Yurio had snatched it out from beneath him, and was curled around it as though it were a precious thing, hoovering up the bitesize morsels. He didn’t seem to care that Yuuri was gawping at him, or that Viktor was shaking his head, eyebrow jutted, and for that Yuuri envied him. 

“Right,” Viktor said, after a while. “Who’s doing the washing up?” 

“Not me, old man. I cooked.”

“I can’t.” Yuuri bit his lip. Was this overstepping a mark? He didn’t think so. He wanted to play, like he’d seen Viktor and Yurio playing. He wanted to _belong_  to this sweet little ragtag unit _._ “I’m still too sick.” 

Yurio’s eyeroll and Viktor’s adoring, somehow heart-shaped smile felt better than they perhaps should have done. 

  _I think I’m going to like it here._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is something really different to anything I've ever written before. Namely, because it's urban fantasy (or it will be, once things get going). I'm really sorry if it sucks, but I've been having a lot of fun planning and re-planning and annotating plans and actually writing it, so I hope you guys have fun reading it too. 
> 
> Yuuri isn't human - he's my interpretation of a mythological creature. There is a metaphorical prize for the first person to guess what he is! There's more to Yurio than meets the eye, too. 
> 
>  
> 
> Things to be said about this chapter:
> 
> 1\. In this AU, none of the characters are ice skaters. Viktor has an office job, working nine-to-five, five days a week and it's _killing_ him because he knows he's meant for something more. He's desperate for some excitement, and that's why he takes Yuuri in; we have impulsive, hopeless romantic, whimsical Viktor who is hungering for a bit of adventure, for a bit of colour, and suddenly there's this mysterious, gorgeous man asking for his help - of course he's going to say yes.
> 
> 2\. In this fic I'm sort of modelling the Viktor-Yurio relationship after Lilo and Nani from the cinematic masterpiece that is _Lilo & Stitch_. So it's more brotherly, but Viktor takes on a sort of parental role too, when he has to. I'd like to think that they look after each other.
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> 3\. Part of the reason why Viktor is so quick to let Yuuri stay, and to abide by his 'no hospital' rule, is that Yurio is right - Viktor does have a hero complex. He wants to help people, he wants to have adventures, he wants to be more than what he is. This, of course, is only amplified by the instant and natural spark that seems to form between Viktor and Yuuri almost as soon as Viktor sees him for the first time. There's a reason for that spark; Yuuri did not end up outside of _Viktor's_ house purely by coincidence. One of the themes of this fic is going to be the idea of fate/destiny, so this is a part of that.
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> Thank you very much for reading, I hope you liked it, and please let me know what you think :)
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> Next chapter: Viktor is convinced that Yuuri is actually a Disney Princess, Yuuri discovers the mystic powers of the microwave, and Yurio has his suspicions.
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> My tumblr can be found [here.](http://unicornsandbandsandstuff.tumblr.com/)


	2. Home is Here

 

It had been an effort to persuade Viktor that he could go to work, that Yuuri had surpassed the point of needing constant nursing. Viktor had run his hands all over Yuuri’s face as though checking for fissures and, to his surprise, Yuuri had enjoyed the feeling of being fussed over. Of being _beheld_. For a split second he’d considered saying _actually I don’t feel good maybe you should stay here_ but no. That would have been selfish. It was disconcerting enough for Yuuri that he _wanted_ Viktor to stay; acting on it would have been a push too far. One step at a time. 

Home alone, Yuuri had taken Viktor up on his offer of a shower – icy cold, the dial turned as low as it would go – and a change of clothes. He rooted through Viktor’s wardrobe, picking items out based on their smell; a moth-eaten pink sweater that had Makkachin’s fresh-rain-and-empty-cottage smell absorbed into it, and a pair of jeans that had a long-ago tingle of sea breeze to them. The sweater drowned Yuuri, and he was quite happy to get lost in it, like a tortoise in its shell.

On the doorstep, Viktor had made Yuuri promise that he wouldn’t exert himself – that he would just lounge on the sofa and watch television, or at the very most take on the strenuous task of napping. Yuuri, after a shower and a change of clothes, felt metaphorically _itchy._ He had to do something. More specifically, he had to do something for Viktor and Yurio, who had seemingly taken him in on a whim. He had to pull his weight, so to speak. Prove his worth. 

So he opted to tackle the mountain of dishes fissioning in the kitchen, a somewhat poor choice of action for someone who had never done the washing up before. But after three days in the Nikiforov-Plistetsky(-Katsuki) household, observing and absorbing, Yuuri thought he knew enough to at least give it a go. 

The kitchen was stiflingly hot, the heat so heavy that it felt physically oppressive, so Yuuri threw a window open. Air rushed in and pinched at his chin like an old aunt at a family get-together. Stood before the sink, Yuuri hiked up the strawberry-ice-cream sleeves of his borrowed jumper to the elbows, and then. 

And then. 

What was the _and then_ supposed to be? Yuuri couldn’t remember. Water. He needed water to clean the dishes, he knew that much. But how did he make the water appear? Viktor’s house backed onto one of the many veins of water that breathed through St Petersburg – he could always find a bucket and bring some in. But that wasn’t how Viktor or Yurio had gotten water into the sink, and he wanted to do it just as they had done. It was something to do with the two hollow metal horns – _taps_ – on the rim of the sink, he was sure. Punctuating his bottom lip with the sharp comma of his teeth, Yuuri reached out and turned the spokes of one of the taps, in the same way that Viktor had shown him with regards to the shower dial. 

Water screeched out of the tap, ricocheted against the washing up bowl, and splashed straight up into Yuuri’s face, causing him to stumble backwards with a deep sort of hissing sound. He spun the dial halfway in the opposite direction, thinning the gush of water to a gentle stream. Once it had formed a thin skin over the base of the washing up bowl, Yuuri gently touched a fingertip to it and watched as frosty fractals formed a nervous system through the water, turning it to a paper-thin sheet of ice. It reflected his bright bite of a smile – the kind of smile that pushes a person’s features upwards, swells their cheeks, wrinkles their nose. It was the kind of smile Viktor gave away like it was nothing, and that thought was sort of bittersweet for Yuuri; bitter because he ached to be like that, to smile without abandon, but overwhelmingly sweet because, well, Viktor _deserved_ to always be smiling. He was a kind man. A  _good_ man. 

Yuuri watched as the bowl filled, the water thawing out the ice. It felt like progress. 

Now. The next step. _Bubbles. When Yurio and Viktor do the washing up there is always bubbles, and they smell of lemons. It’s soap, isn’t it? That’s what they call it._  

Just as Yuuri was about to give up hope, help came to him in the form of a bulbous pigeon donning feathers the same shade of blue as Viktor’s beloved trench coat. It blustered through the window, its chest puffed out like a lightbulb, its tiny head twitching spasmodically in right angles as it plopped down on the counter next to the sink. 

“Hello,” Yuuri smiled the greeting, in English because he didn’t know Russian and it was highly unlikely that a Japanese pigeon would be this far from home. He gave a gentle wave. “I don’t suppose you know how to put bubbles in the water?” 

The pigeon blinked up at Yuuri for a moment, and then strutted closer to the sink, up to a see-through bottle containing a viscous, beach-hut yellow liquid. He (for Yuuri knew the pigeon to be a gentleman) pecked the bottle once, and Yuuri nodded. 

Sure enough, a prolonged squeeze of the bottle later, the sink was full of creamy clouds, the sharp-bright scent of lemon singing out into the room. Yuuri worked through the washing up one item at a time, humming lullabies, nursery rhymes, home sounds, to himself as he worked. There was something soothing to the rhythm of it, to the mischievous kiss of bubbles popping against his skin. As he washed, he kept up a conversation with his feathered friend, talking about the weather, about Yurio, about Viktor, and asking questions about the goings-on of St Petersburg that weren’t answered because he was talking to a pigeon (but, really, they were). 

He stopped when he washed his first spoon. It was a teaspoon, made of a metal too dull to be silver. His eyes widened and his fingers shook as he fumbled his thumb into the soft bowl of the spoon. It fit, perfect as a hug and Yuuri found himself utterly _entranced_ by the mundane object, by the elegant simplicity of the thin handle, the open embrace of the bowl, the ambient coolness of the metal. So he slipped it into his pocket, just for the moment, just because he _had_ to. He couldn’t understand or explain it, but in that moment he knew he _needed_ that teaspoon, and that he wouldn’t be able to rest until it was his, and now that it _was_ his, everything seemed that little bit brighter. 

That afternoon, Viktor did something he had never done before; he came home for lunch. He didn’t even lie to himself as to the reason. He wanted to see Yuuri, pure and simple. No, it was more than a want. It was a visceral _burn_. It was the most ridiculous thing in the world, but Viktor – during his four hours at work that morning – had _missed_ Yuuri. It had felt like having a shadow stood next to him, an absence of light. But Viktor knew exactly why that was. He was a man who knew himself, and he knew that he had fallen quite in love with the stranger he had found passed out yards from his house just three days before. 

Conscious that Yuuri may well be sleeping like a fallen angel on the sofa, Viktor slipped into his house with the silent stealth of a cat. Only to be startled by the sound of Yuuri’s voice, in crisp and clear English, fox-trotting in from the kitchen. 

“Ah, Viktor is so nice, you see. He’s very caring. He watches me when I sleep and I know he thinks I don’t know, but I’m not going to tell him. I’ve never felt looked after before, you know? It’s a good feeling. A _warm_ feeling.” Viktor’s heart swelled and he followed Yuuri’s voice, wanting to hear more pretty things about himself. “Yurio, he’s a bit prickly. But he’s fifteen, and I don’t think he really means it. Well, maybe he does. But not towards Viktor. He loves Viktor a whole lot, I think. There’s still so much I don’t understand.”

A pigeon. A _pigeon_. Yuuri was talking to a pigeon, of all creatures, elbow deep in a voluminous haze of washing up bubbles.Because _of course_ he was. 

Viktor did the only sensible thing one _can_ do in such a situation; he snapped a picture and, battling through the firework of cracks on his phone screen, uploaded it to Instagram with the caption _I think he’s a Disney Princess._ Almost instantly there was a comment from Viktor’s friend, Phichit Chulanont: _omg he’s too cute! And is he wearing your sweater?? Viktor Nikiforov do you have a boyfriend???_  

Smiling to himself in pastels, Viktor tapped in a reply. _Something like that._

 

* * *

 

 

Yurio couldn’t escape his new housemate (or, as he thought of Yuuri, The Name Stealer). Every time he turned around, it seemed, the older man was there. _Lurking_.

It wasn’t enough that The Name Stealer had stolen his name, oh no, he seemed to be intent on stealing every last piece of what made Yuri Plisetsky _Yuri Plistetsky._ He had laid claim to Yurio’s favourite spot on the couch – the end closest to the door, directly opposite the television. He’d told The Name Stealer in no uncertain terms to _move it or lose it_ , but Makkachin had bared her teeth at Yurio until he’d backed away, straight into the choke-hold of one of Viktor’s two ‘shabby chic’ (read: dumpster-dived-for) armchairs. That was another thing The Name Stealer had snatched from Yurio; Makkachin’s unwavering affection. Yurio was definitely more of a cat than a dog person, almost by definition, but that didn’t mean he was immune to Makkachin’s matronly fussing, to the soft whisper of her curls pressed to his face whenever he’d had a rough day because she just _knew_. Maybe, just _maybe_ (but probably not), Yurio could have forgiven Yuuri all of this – if only it weren’t for the high crime of stealing Viktor. _Before_ , the first thing Viktor had done upon getting home from work would be to go straight up to Yuri’s room and badger him with endless questions about his day (which Yurio would always answer in one of three ways; a shrug, a roll of the eyes, or a sharp lash of _none of your fucking business, old man_ ). For the past week, however, Viktor’s first port of call upon whirlwinding through the door had been to check on Yuuri, who seemed to forever be in the kitchen doing the washing up or otherwise gazing longingly into the cutlery drawer. To top it all off, The Name Stealer liked to act as though oblivious to his sins; blushing and smiling, and then doing this stupid kicked-puppy look every time Yurio dared to imply that he might be something other than perfect which, of course, would play right into The Name Stealer’s greedy little hands because then Viktor would spend the remainder of his waking hours fawning over Yuuri (and giving Yurio the cold shoulder). So not only was their new housemate a total fucking weirdo, he was a  _thieving_ total fucking weirdo. 

Currently, Yurio was treating himself to an afternoon snack of microwavable mashed potato – the Ultimate Comfort Food. He deserved it, he told himself. He’d had a hard day, with the bruises to prove it, and thinking about those bruises reminded him of how Viktor probably wouldn’t even notice them because of course he wouldn’t, why would he when he had his precious new pet to play with? 

“You’re hurt.”

Yurio spun around from the microwave to the doorway, with all the grace of a knife along a throat, the movement so fast and sharp that his hair slashed against his cheeks.

_Great. Just who I wanted to see_. 

Because there, stood in the doorway, was Yuuri, Makkachin at his heels, her head pressed against the inside of Yuuri’s knee. And, _oh my fucking god the nerve of it that total bastard,_ he was wearing a tiger-print t-shirt. _Yurio’s_ tiger-print t-shirt. It wasn’t an altogether special article of clothing to Yurio, but in that moment he decided that it was his all-time favourite garment and that he had to have it back, and have it back _now_ because it was _his_ and couldn’t _anything_ just be _his_ anymore? 

“You’re wearing my t-shirt.” 

“Viktor said I could.” Yuuri blinked, his eyes such a dark brown that they were almost an inky sort of black. He looked down, twisted a finger tightly into the hem. “He said it looks cute on me.” 

“Well, you and your big piggy gut are stretching it.” Yurio turned his attention back to the microwave, wondering if perhaps he could speed up the process by sheer force of will. 

Silence slid in like a panther, and manifested itself as a biting cold that Yurio first thought metaphorical but then realised, with an abrupt shiver, was literal. His left cheek, in particular, the cheek facing Yuuri, felt as though two needles were punching through it, the holes whistling with an arctic wind. He turned and, sure enough, Yuuri was looking directly at him. Doing that stupid head-tilted, droopy-eyed, puppy-dog look that would have had Viktor fussing over him like a toddler with a baby doll. 

“What are you looking at?” 

“You.” There was something about the open earnestness on Yuuri’s face that made the urge to thaw just that harder for Yurio to resist. “You’re hurt.” Yuuri stepped closer, Makkachin shadowing him, but Yurio stood his ground, fixing his eyes on the microwave’s countdown. “Did someone hurt you?” 

“What do you care?” Yurio touched a hand to his cheek, to hide the watercolour bruise he knew was blossoming there. He was _fine_. He didn’t need help from anyone. Not from Viktor, and _certainly_ not from The Name Stealer. 

“I care because we’re a pack.” 

Something shone in Yurio’s mind and he clutched at it so quickly that he cut himself on it. _A pack._ _We’re a pack. I’ve got you now, Name Stealer._  

Yurio speared his eyes up at Yuuri but they fell just short. There was an _ache_ to Yuuri’s face, pulling downwards at all of his features apart from his mouth, which breathed upwards into a small smile that looked like pity but _wasn’t_ , because Yuuri was looking at Yurio as an equal. _Empathy._ The teenager scowled, letting his eyes slip down to the floor, intent on letting Yuuri know his feelings via the poignant medium of silence. But, _Jesus Christ,_ those puppy-dog eyes. 

“No one,” Yurio growled out, the words wrenched from him, “hurt me.” 

“Okay,” Yuuri murmured after a pause. “I believe you.” 

He didn’t. Yurio _knew_ he didn’t, but at the same time those three words caused a cataclysmic shift in the basis of Yurio’s burning hatred for the older man and, for just a moment, it wavered. Because Yuuri wasn’t saying that he believed nobody had hurt Yurio, not really, but that he _understood_. Understood what, Yurio wasn’t quite sure but, for a moment at least, he thought of the newcomer as _Yuuri_ rather than _The Name Stealer_ or _bastard_ or _moron_. Makkachin pressed her nose to Yurio’s leg, and warmth bled outwards from the point of contact. 

The moment was ruptured by the three-beat siren of the microwave. If Yurio jumped at the surprise of sound, Yuuri positively _flew_ to the other side of the room. The man sort of coiled in on himself, the slide of his back serpentine, his feet apart in a springing kind of stance. Makkachin, who had never before displayed any kind of animosity towards their kitchen appliances, bowed down at the front and _growled_ at the poor, unsuspecting microwave. 

“W-what, what _is_ that thing?” Yuuri’s voice was water spiralling down the drain. 

Yurio’s lips quirked into a tight smirk, and he pressed the release button. It wasn’t as funny as he thought it should have been, hearing the high whimper of fright squeeze from Yuuri as the microwave door swept open. But no, no, The Name Stealer deserved it. He deserved to feel afraid. Threatened. At risk. _Like everything could be ripped away from underneath him in an instant._  

Folding his arms over his chest, Yurio’s words wafted out like a cool kind of smoke; “where did you say you were from again?” There was no reply beyond Makkachin’s growling evolving into a harsh, door-slam of a bark. Yuuri stayed on the other side of the narrow room, back arched against the wall. A sigh stomped its way out of Yurio’s lips. “It’s called a _microwave,_ moron _._ We use it to cook things really quickly.” 

Yurio took his time taking his mashed potato out of the microwave, his fingertips playing a piano sonata against the black plastic packaging as he tried to avoid burning them. He peeled back the clear plastic roof and stooped over to inhale the steam, the hug-warm tendrils of it. However, Yurio only managed half a lungful because, suddenly, the steam cut off mid-drift. Frowning to himself, he poked a finger into the fluffy swathes of heavenly goodness – only to find that his piping-hot afternoon treat had gone stone cold. 

He tossed his head over his shoulder and, _of fucking course_ , Yuuri was stood, palm outstretched in the direction of Yurio (and, thus, of Yurio’s mashed potato). It made no sense, none whatsoever, but food hot enough to _burn_ doesn’t just frost over like that and it had to be _someone’s_ fault, so it might as well be The Name Stealer’s. 

“What the _fuck_ did you just do?” 

“You were going to burn yourself,” Yuuri muttered down at the patchy linoleum, scuffing one foot shyly against it. 

Yurio swiftly turned his attention back to his mashed potato because it was the best of three possible options (the first being that he stayed glaring at Yuuri and let himself cave in, the second that he pursued the line of questioning starting with _what on Earth_ even though he knew, really, not to question such things). He heaved the cutlery draw open, plucked up a fork and stormed past Yuuri. 

He looked back over his shoulder as he strutted over the threshold. Yuuri wasn’t looking at him, so he glared that little bit harder until the older man was. 

“I’m on to you, by the way.” He spat the words, his eyes narrowed to needles. 

“Pardon?” Yuuri blinked and it was infuriating, the obliviousness of it. 

“I don’t know _what_ you are. But I _will_ find out.” Yurio paused as though weighing something up, and then he let one side of the scale drop to the floor. “Viktor Nikiforov is under _my_ protection.” 

When he got no response other than Yuuri blinking that stupid fucking I’m-so-perfect-and-innocent-and-sweet blink at him and Makkachin tilting her head, Yurio whipped off, out of the room, and thundered up the stairs. Gone, before Yuuri (or Makkachin, for that matter) could clock the uncomfortable red itching up his cheeks. 

This left Yuuri stood in the kitchen, hurt and confused. He’d tried to be like Viktor – to look after Yurio ( _you should always protect the young)_  in Viktor’s stead whilst the older man was at work. He thought his actions through; he’d shown the concern he’d felt bubbling in his gut, he’d taken steps to put that concern into action, he’d expressed affection, he’d even managed to stop Yurio from coming to harm at the hands of this _Mi-cro-wave_. What had he done wrong? Was it calling them – he, Yurio, Makkachin, and Viktor – a pack? They – _humans_ – didn’t use that term, did they? 

_Family. I should have said family_. 

As he turned to leave, the open cutlery drawer caught his eye, a glint of faux-silver winking in the winter sunshine. He felt in his pocket for his humble teaspoon, hugged his thumb into the bowl of it, and thought _well, one more won’t hurt_.

 

* * *

 

 

It was Viktor’s turn to make dinner. Mainly, this was because Yurio only had three recipes in his repertoire and after living on a cycle of these three for the past fortnight, Viktor fancied something different. Pasta. He could do pasta without burning the house down, he felt fairly confident. Besides, Yurio liked his pasta. He wasn’t sure if Yuuri liked pasta or not, but Yuuri had apparently eaten during the day – as was becoming ritual. _But if the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and he never eats my cooking how am I meant to charm him?_  

_Oh well_ , Viktor thought as he caught his reflection in the window, backlit by the streetlamp outside, _I will have to charm him with my razor wit and devilish good looks._  

If Viktor had squinted at his reflection he would have seen crescents of snow-cloud grey sketching themselves into the skin under his eyes. Tiredness was looping its shackles around Viktor’s joints and pulling them taut, stretching, weighing down his every movement. Which was exceedingly odd, considering that Viktor had been having no trouble sleeping whatsoever. He had, however, been experiencing a spate of strange but by no means unpleasant dreams. Dreams about Yuuri. 

They were always the same but slightly different, variations on the same tune. In the dream, he would be in bed, sound asleep, acutely aware of the absence of warmth where Makkachin had once slept (although he couldn’t begrudge her Yuuri). A whisper-creak would wake him up – or, rather, would wake his dream-self up – and, as his eyes feathered open, there Yuuri would be, stood by the window, gilded by starlight. In Viktor’s dreams Yuuri always wore the outfit in which Viktor had found him, and with each dream Viktor would notice a new detail; the way the maze of buckles fastening his boots were in a chaotic but particular order, how his trousers hugged his hips like a lover, the sheen of the jacket in the moonlight. The outfit – all in a leather so black that it was almost a void – was streamlined to Yuuri’s body, close as breath. As though to add to the aerodynamics, Yuuri’s hair was always slicked tightly back in a way that accentuated his facial structure, cut stories into the lines of his jaw, his chin, the small peak of his nose. Yuuri was a soft man, Viktor knew that now, but like this he was angles and sharpness. Viktor would not have minded getting cut.

Viktor had seen Yuuri like that before. What made him so sure that it was a dream – a recurring one – was the fact that, well. When Yuuri appeared to Viktor like this he had _wings._ Huge wings that spanned another arms’ length either side, and scraped the ceiling at their tallest points. They were weblike, the bones visible by their definition beneath the thin, stretched skin. At first the wings had appeared to be black, but Viktor had soon realised that was a disservice; they had universes trapped in them, like black opal, like the spectrum refracted in oil. In his dreams Yuuri almost always stayed statue-still, but on the occasions that he _did_ move, his wings moved with him, each bone acting as a joint. In one dream, Yuuri had taken a step towards the bed, only to stumble – and immediately right himself by arching his wings down into supports against the floor. When they moved, they glimmered. And, _Christ_ , it was beautiful. 

In these dreams, Viktor never moved, never called out to Yuuri, and nor did he feel any desire to do so. He was content just to watch, to bask, to admire. 

Presently, Viktor turned to the cutlery drawer to fish out a spoon. He was broken out of his autopilot trance by the realisation that, out of the plethora of spoons he knew himself to own, only three were currently residing in the designated drawer. 

But then he just shrugged and picked one out anyway, because that’s what you do.

 

* * *

 

“Yuuri! Rise and shine, today’s another day!” Viktor sang his words as he twirled around the living room, blossoming open the curtains. Despite his myriad offers of Yuuri sharing his bed, Yuuri – for some reason that was utterly beyond Viktor’s comprehension – still opted for the sofa. 

As sunlight splashed itself liberally onto Yuuri’s face, the younger man coiled up into a tight ball, and _hissed_ , scrunching his eyes up tight against the onslaught. Viktor brushed a hand through Yuuri’s hair, which somehow always managed to feel finger-curling soft. This gentle act of affection halted the hissing, and replaced it with a purred sort of sound that was accompanied by a pastel smudge of pink prowling up Yuuri’s cheeks.

For a moment, Viktor just let himself breathe it in. Things had suddenly become so _colourful_ , and it was all because of Yuuri. He hadn’t been depressed before, per se, but he’d been chafing, itchy. It was like he’d been a star forced into a square slot on one of those shape-identifying baby toys. His life hadn’t been too bad, but the monotony to it had been cancerous. Now, though, here Viktor was, sunlight bouncing off his skin, an angel on his sofa, and his hand lost in the thick, black wilderness of paradise. 

There was a tectonic sort of jolt as Yuuri place his hand atop Viktor’s, if only for the purpose of unpicking the Russian’s hand from his hair.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Viktor chirped, dropping down next to the other man. He couldn’t help but smile at the sweet softness of Yuuri rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Viktor wanted to soak in every detail, commit it to memory as something precious. “We’re going out today.”

“We.” Yuuri paused to punctuate with a yawn. He suddenly found himself fighting the urge to rest his head on Viktor’s shoulder and curl up around the older man, to fall back to sleep in the ivory tower of his arms. The pink dusting his cheeks prickled into redness. “We are?” 

“Yep. You’ve been living with us for nearly a _month_ , and if you stretch another one of Yurio’s shirts I think he might murder you. So,” Viktor’s face blasted up into a beam, “I’m taking you clothes shopping!” 

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

Viktor had envisaged it as being a magical experience, that walking along the streets of St Petersburg with Yuuri would be like walking them for the first time. He had pictured breezing into various clothes shops and boutiques, picking out various ensembles and then getting a private fashion show in the changing rooms. He had imagined Yuuri looking drop-dead gorgeous in absolutely _everything_. In this fantasy scenario, Viktor had also pencilled in a stop-off at a Starbucks, where he would buy Yuuri a frappucuccino with whipped cream on top, only for Yuuri to get the cream on his nose so, of course, Viktor would play the hero and wipe it off for him – only for Yuuri to lean in that little bit closer. And then they would kiss, with angels singing in the background and fireworks going off outside. Maybe, even, with a biplane waving a banner proclaiming _Yuuri + Viktor forever._  

None of the above, of course, actually happened. 

Viktor’s woes began at a cashpoint, where he was bought to the Earth-shattering conclusion that he could not _afford_ to take Yuuri to high-end boutiques or even to high-street-designer stores if he still wanted to be able to eat for the rest of the month (it had been a close call). So he’d withdrawn 3,000 rubles and led Yuuri along to a thrift shop he knew fairly well. It was palatial and ornate, but gilded in rust, dust and sunspots of mould. Like a long-forgotten dream of former glory. 

The shop was on a corner down one of the city’s labyrinthine backstreets, curled around the dovetail of two streets like a marble fist. Only, it wasn’t marble – it was rain-stained concrete. Viktor watched Yuuri as the younger man’s eyes widened, the space between his lips forming a soft almond shape.

The bell on the door didn’t tinkle as Viktor held it open for Yuuri, who was blinking around as though in a daze. A smile sprung to Viktor’s lips; _I knew he’d like it here._

It was an Aladdin’s Cave of clothes, arranged not by gender or size or type, but by colour, a soup of treasures. Viktor headed straight for the black section, intent on searching out the kind of clothes he’d found Yuuri in. But when he looked over his shoulder, it was to see that Yuuri had gotten side tracked by a mountain of green stacked precariously atop an threadbare chaise lounge. The black-haired man seemed to be leading with his nose, burrowing through the clothes until he caught what he was after; a murky-teal knitted sweater with a geometric pattern of black triangles splashed all over it. Yuuri held it up to himself and looked in Viktor’s direction, his eyes – a dusty but quartz-clear amethyst-whiskey colour – forming question marks. 

“Ah, Yuuri,” Viktor said warmly as he strode over. It was a hideous thing, really. Too big. Poorly made. The colour claggy. But Yuuri was _smiling_ at him and to deny that smile _anything_ would have been a sin. “That’s perfect!” 

“It is?” There was a slight lift to Yuuri’s cheeks, a reach to his lips. He looked like something in him was glowing. 

“Absolutely.” Viktor nodded enthusiastically. He took the jumper from Yuuri and draped it over his arm. “Is there anything else you like?” 

Viktor trailed around after Yuuri, who was going through the shop like a bloodhound, watching over him. It wasn’t exactly what he’d had planned, but that didn’t matter because this was so much _better._ Yuuri was smiling and happy and invested, his eyes darting around as though trying to take it all in, and that was all that Viktor found himself wanting. He didn’t even care that most of the clothes were moth-eaten or too big or, frankly, hideous; all that mattered to Viktor is that they were what _Yuuri_ had chosen.

They burnt through their morning, the growing pile of clothes making Viktor’s arms ache. It was worth it, though, if only for the giggle of unadulterated delight Yuuri had emitted at finding a t-shirt with a cartoon poodle on it. Viktor added a few more practical items to their haul – a cerulean coat, a hardly-worn pair of Converse, and a cluster of plain t-shirts. It wasn’t fancy, but they’d achieved their aim; Yuuri now had clothes of his own. Yurio would be pleased. 

Walking back out onto the high street, they found that what had been a brook of people earlier that morning had gushed into a whitewater river. This didn’t bother Viktor, but he knew the throng of people, so many that it was impossible to avoid physical contact, was making Yuuri nervous. How could he tell? Yuuri’s eyes, usually so bright and lively at home, were stuck straight forward as though pinning down their destination. He had shifted closer to Viktor and it looked like seeking shelter.

Viktor didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to, and he wasn’t completely sure that he could say anything without making Yuuri feel worse. Viktor did precisely what he needed to; he watched over Yuuri.

When, a few streets down, Viktor felt the snowflake hug of Yuuri’s hand around his, he didn’t say anything then, either. He just squeezed gently back, and that said all that Yuuri needed to hear. 

 

* * *

 

“You should go to Yakov, Yuri.” 

“I know.” 

“So why aren’t you?” 

“ _Because_. I can’t be sure, Mila. He’s. He’s not _like_ the others. He’s _cold_.”

“Cold? Well then, Yuri, he can’t _possibly_ be-” 

“I _know_. But he definitely isn’t human either. Just as I think everything fits he does something that blows the picture to pieces. It doesn’t help that Viktor has gone all starry-eyed for him. I came home the other day and do you know what Viktor was doing? _Combing_ the moron's  _hair._ And singing this stupid lullaby whilst he did it. I thought I was gonna throw up.” 

“Oh. Oh _Yuri_.” 

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“You’re not going to Yakov because you don’t want to hurt Viktor.” 

A beat. 

“Don’t be a moron, Mila. I’m not going to Yakov because I’m not one hundred percent sure and I don’t want to wind up slitting the throat of some poor innocent. He might be annoying as hell but he doesn’t deserve to _die_ for it.” 

“So you _do_ have a moral compass! Or is that only for matters regarding Viktor?” 

“Shut the fuck up, Mila.”

 

* * *

 

 

Viktor should have been asleep. He knew that. He had work in the morning, and without a nice, round eight-hours of sleep, punctuated by dreams of a winged, leather-clad Yuuri, he would be a nightmare at the office for all concerned. But Yuuri wasn’t asleep either. 

It was two o’clock in the morning and Viktor knew Yuuri wasn’t asleep because the sofa was as empty as an expectant grave and where had Yuuri gone at _two o’clock in the morning?_ Viktor wasn’t angry. Of course he wasn’t – Yuuri was his own person, completely capable of doing his own thing – but it was such an un-Yuuri-like thing to do. To up and leave in the middle of the night without so much as a whisper. Yuuri, sweet and soft and kind Yuuri, was out there, in the dark, on his own. Maybe Viktor would have felt better if Makkachin had gone missing too, but no – she was curled asleep on the couch, keeping it warm for her Yuuri’s return. 

All sorts of ideas were running wild through Viktor’s head. _He could be dead by now. He could be dying. What if he’s in trouble? What if he doesn’t come back?_ But he would. Of course he would. Because the _what if_ was too painful for Viktor to breathe around. Everything would be fine. It had to be. When Viktor had decided his life needed more excitement, this had not been what he’d signed up for. 

What if Yuuri was _with_ someone? Like, _with_ with? No. No, that couldn’t be it. Since their visit to the thrift shop the previous weekend, hand-holding had become a regular thing. Sitting watching television, their hands would pool together in the space between them, cool air meeting hot. Things happened when they touched. The night before Yuuri had even rushed to hug Viktor upon the older man stepping through the front door, jettisoning questions about his day at work; when Viktor had cupped Yuuri’s face before responding, the younger man had nuzzled into the touch. Pieces were slotting together, circuits were snapping into place. 

Everywhere Yuuri went a soft push of frost followed him, but Viktor had gotten used to the breath of ice that shivered down his spine every time Yuuri got close. Room temperature felt like emptiness. That was what Yuuri had done to him; nothing was enough anymore, and he _loved_ it. 

Viktor slid his phone out of his pocket. _Three minutes past two_. At which point should he call the police? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure if he even _could_ call the police because what if the No Hospital Rule extended to other emergency services? Hell, what could he even _say_ to the police; _this strange man I found outside my house five weeks ago has gone out and I’m scared he might not come back and he needs your help because he can't look after himself he apologises when he treads on dogs’ feet._ Yeah. Something like that.

He hid his face in his hands, protecting himself from the distant storm clouds of an incoming headache. 

“Viktor.” 

The addressed’s head shot up so quickly that something _clicked_. The sharp twinge of pain didn’t hurt though, not when Yuuri was stood there in the doorway, fastened into his streamlined leather, the various buckles on his boots glinting. Yuuri tilted his head, blinking because, obviously, it was stranger that Viktor was sat in his own living room than it was that Yuuri had pulled a disappearing act in the shrinking hours of the night. 

Viktor jolted to his feet, relief forming a tumultuous swell in his stomach. Nothing mattered except that Yuuri was okay and that sort of scared Viktor a little bit. Nothing had ever mattered so fundamentally _much_ to him. 

He stopped as he got closer to Yuuri, a reaction to the younger man stumbling half a step backwards. There were raspberry smudges around Yuuri’s mouth and Viktor’s first thought was _lipstick_. But then smell of burnt copper hit him. _Blood._

“ _Yuuri_.” Viktor’s voice was the resigned fizzle of a wave reaching the beach. “Where have you been?” Without waiting for an answer, Viktor reached to trace a fingertip over the red stain, fire flickering through snow. Yuuri didn’t flinch away, but the suggestion of such a movement was there. “Are you hurt?” 

“N-no. No, Viktor. I’m okay.” Yuuri’s head spun as he hunted the right words down, but how could he focus when Viktor was touching his face, when his body was turning to lead and all he wanted to do was sleep? He wormed his hand into his pocket, to fit his thumb into the bowl of his favourite spoon. “I couldn’t sleep. So I went for a walk, and I got a nose bleed.” 

Subconsciously, Viktor knew this was a lie. It was in the way Yuuri’s eyes -  inky-brown, solid, hard – kept darting around the room, falling on everything other than Viktor himself. It was in the way Yuuri’s hands – bound up in fingerless gloves – kept twitching. It was in the stark steadiness of Yuuri’s voice, which was never steady unless he was focused on something. 

Yuuri was lying. Viktor _knew_ Yuuri was lying. But he didn’t care. All he cared about, in that moment, was that Yuuri was _home_. And so, Viktor threw his arms around Yuuri’s neck and reeled him in for a tight hug. Yuuri was so cold that it burnt, and Viktor wanted to make him warm. Or if he couldn’t do that, then he would at least burn with him. 

For a fracture of a moment, Yuuri went rigid. Hugging wasn’t out of the ordinary for them – Yuuri himself had even started initiating these wondrous, home-like things – but it was still a shock. But then _Viktor_ and _care_ and _this is what warm feels like_ spiralled through Yuuri’s veins and he thawed, letting his face melt against Viktor’s neck. It felt like a safe kind of place. 

“You scared the hell out of me.” Viktor’s words came out compressed, pushed through his teeth. He pressed his cheek against Yuuri’s hair, let the soft tickle of it remind him that this was real, that Yuuri was _right here._  

“Why?” Yuuri blinked, the reach of his eyelashes stroking against Viktor’s skin.

“Because.” Viktor stepped back for a moment, holding Yuuri at arms’ length by the younger man’s shoulders. He gently squeezed his fingertips in. “Because I thought you might not come back.”

Yuuri’s face went from earnest to confusion to a soft ache of concern. He pressed a palm to Viktor’s chest and it did all kinds of nebulous things to the organ under it. 

“I’ll always come back, Viktor. Here is home.” 

In the morning – or, rather, later _that_ morning – Yurio would come downstairs. He would go to the kitchen to make himself a coffee only to find that the last remaining spoon in the cutlery drawer was a soup ladle, and so would stir his coffee with a knife. He would then traipse into the living room, only to drop his coffee to the floor with the shock of seeing not only The Name Stealer asleep on the sofa, wrapped up in that _ridiculous_ leather outfit, but Viktor too. Yuuri would be curled up into a small sort of bean shape with Viktor curved protectively around him, and Makkachin would be draped over their legs like a blanket. And, after a moment, Yurio would wake them up via the highly effective method of screeching  _you fuckers the sofa is family space get a _fucking_ room._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, thank you very much to everyone who read, commented and left kudos on the first chapter - it really does mean a lot! 
> 
>  
> 
> Things to be said about this chapter:
> 
> 1\. When I planned this chapter out, I had envisaged a kind of getting-to-know-you montage of Yuuri integrating into the family, so I hope that worked. There was so much that I wanted to add to this chapter with regards to thoughts/feelings of both Yuuri and Yurio, but I couldn't because I don't want to reveal their backstories quite yet.
> 
> 2\. Someone in the comments did manage to guess what Yuuri is, but if you still want to guess it for yourself, here's what we know so far: he's really cold (although, according to Yurio and Mila, this is not typical of what Yuuri is), he has an affinity for animals, he has an incredible sense of smell, there's something reptilian about him (the way he moves, he sometimes hisses), he's never before had to use a sink or microwave, he's somewhat protective, he hoards things, he has a sort of pack mentality, he (maybe) has wings, he doesn't eat with the others, he can move silently/quickly, he's magical, his eyes change colour. Remember - this is my interpretation of a certain mythical creature, so not all of these things are consistent with more typical representations of these creatures.
> 
> 3\. Why do Viktor and Yuuri trust/like each other so quickly? I'm going to be straight up with you; this is partially because I'm a very impatient writer, although I have tried to slow it down a little bit (this chapter does take place over the course of five-ish weeks). However there is also a reason for it. For Viktor, he's very much a love-at-first-sight kind of person, and I imagine him to be a whirlwind kind of lover; also, he's been so desperate for something exciting to happen, that he's not really about to question it. As for Yuuri, he's in desperate need of someone to trust, and he's never had someone care about him like Viktor does before - he needs kindness and shelter and he knows that being with Viktor feels nice. Also, there's an element of Fate to it, which will come into play more in later chapters. 
> 
> 4\. He only has a cameo in this chapter, but I just want to say that Phichit is much more than just a pretty face - he knows exactly what's going on. In fact, he probably knows more than the rest of the characters put together. 
> 
> 5\. Is Viktor really neglecting Yurio? No, of course not. I wanted to do a little bit of unreliable narrating in the microwave section, with Yurio as my focaliser. He's used to being the centre of Viktor's attention, so now that he has to share Viktor with Yuuri, he's feeling very jealous and insecure. I think he feels like he's in danger of being replaced, of losing his home - so of course he's going to focus on Yuuri's negatives and exaggerate them. It's not going to be the ten nice things Yuuri does for him that he remembers, but rather the one negative thing. Then there's also this thing of him knowing that Yuuri might be an actual, physical threat, which naturally taints his view of Yuuri. Although I do imagine that Viktor has been giving a fair bit of attention to Yuuri - the man's in love, after all.
> 
> 6\. This is a really small detail, but when Viktor's imagining their shopping trip, he pictures buying Yuuri a frappuccino because he knows by now that Yuuri likes cold things - he's learning to understand Yuuri, he's picking up on little things. I also tried to show this with the scene on the high street.
> 
> 7\. 3,000 rubles converts to £40.72, or US$50.22, just in case you were wondering.
> 
> 8\. Why is nobody questioning the Great Spoon Shortage? Because, I think, you wouldn't. Spoons are such mundane little things that them vanishing, one-by-one, wouldn't really make a huge impact - especially when stranger things are happening.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Normally, I think I will update this fic once midweek and once at the weekend, but this Sunday is my birthday, so chapter three won't be up until this time next week. Thanks again for reading! :)
> 
> Next chapter: Yurio dishes out some advice, Phichit shows Yuuri how to be human, and Viktor finds himself on the receiving end of some very sharp teeth.


	3. Once Bitten

 

 

Yuuri knew he was in trouble. _God,_ he was in trouble. If he’d been waist-deep in shit before Viktor had found him a handful of months ago, then he was now dangerously close to being drowned by it, the tide of proverbial shit poking up into his nostrils, choking him. 

The cause of this intoxicating sense of impending doom was currently sat next to him, gazing obliviously at the television. Yuuri couldn’t understand Russian, beyond the scattering of pleasantries he’d picked up from Viktor and Yurio over the past two months, and he didn’t know enough to decipher this particular programme. It was one of those DIY, home renovation shows, and Yuuri didn’t have to be fluent to appreciate the aesthetics of it. Not that he did, but he didn’t think that was down to the language barrier. He was content though, just watching Viktor watching the television; the way his glacially blue eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, when he saw something he liked, the angel-feather quirk of his lips when the presenter cracked a joke. Yes, even if he _could_ understand the television, Yuuri would have found observing, absorbing Viktor a far more rewarding endeavour. 

And that was precisely the problem. He was getting _attached._ Not that attachment in itself was a particularly bad thing. He was _attached_ to Yurio, whose mercurial moods he had learnt to ride like a wave, and whom Yuuri had found himself feeling a strong yearning to protect because, in some abstract way, Yuuri saw a lot of himself in the Russian teenager – the loneliness, the secrets, the need to keep people away, the pressure. But he wasn’t attached to Viktor in the same way that he was attached to Yurio. If Yurio was attachment at arm’s length, then Viktor was attachment head-to-chest, clinging, diving straight in and immersing. It was _dangerous._  

Yes, dangerous was the exact right word. Not so dangerous for Yuuri, per se, but for Viktor. Every second Yuuri spent with Viktor felt like watching a grain of sand drip through an hour glass. A countdown. Footsteps pit-pattering closer with every waking moment. Yuuri could hear them. They were coming, Yuuri knew, and they were going to snatch Viktor away from him. 

“Hey, Yuuri, look at that!” Viktor nudged his knuckles against the icy ridge of Yuuri’s arm, and the younger man jumped. But then he focused, zooming in at the supernatural glare of the television, because something was exciting Viktor, making the ribbon of his lips curve into a loose heart shape, and thus Yuuri found he _had_ to know what it was. _I want to know everything that makes Viktor happy._ “See? They’ve got a room just for their _dog_. One day, maybe, we’ll have a room like that for Makka.”

Yuuri’s eyes slipped in and out of focus, until he felt the _click_ of them grabbing onto the frequency of the television screen. He squinted, able to feel the purring stroke of Viktor’s eyes on him. Indeed, the screen showed a large, modernist room in a white so bright as to be reflective, decked out in everything a dog could ever need (including a four-poster bed in miniature, the frame encrusted with real diamonds).

A bolt of laughter snorted from the back of Yuuri’s throat. _Yes, Makkachin deserves something like that._

“You know,” Viktor began again, his smile settling into something softer, like a watercolour of lilies or the ripple of a lake in a breeze, “speaking of rooms. You don’t have to sleep on the sofa if you don’t want to.” Yuuri watched, mesmerised, as Viktor wetted his lower lip, his tongue a quick, sleek dart. “We could sleep together.” 

The tectonic plates of Yuuri’s ribs shifted and convulsed, pushing the air out of his lungs in one arctic blast. This was literal, Yuuri knew, because he saw Viktor shiver. But no matter how cold Yuuri’s presence made the room, it wasn’t enough to cool the blush from his cheeks. Half of his embarrassment came from Viktor’s suggestion. The other half from the fact that Yuuri wasn’t exactly sure that he’d say no. 

“Ah, no! No.” Viktor shook his head, his face all gentle smirking and cool confidence. “Not like _that_. Well, maybe like that too. But. Sleep together, I mean, in the same bed, _da?_ ” 

And, _oh_ , how Yuuri wanted to say yes – if only to release the firework of joy building up behind Viktor’s pupils. A million reasons constellated in Yuuri’s head as to why it would be such a terrible, _dangerous,_ idea, but all he could focus on were the two reasons as to why it would be worth the cataclysmic risk; it would make Viktor happy, and, Yuuri knew, it would make himself happy too. 

“Viktor. I.” Yuuri sighed and it felt like stepping back from the edge. Because if he jumped it wouldn’t only be himself falling – no, it would be Viktor too. “No. Thank you.” 

“Can I ask why?” There was no anger, not even a hint of frustration, in Viktor’s voice. Yuuri had to look away to stop himself from melting against the concern pooling in the older man’s eyes. “ _Yuuri,”_ Viktor murmured, and it was almost a melody. He reached a hand out, as had become the norm, to hug over Yuuri’s fingertips. The usual jolt of hot air meeting cold flickered through, but Yuuri pulled his hand away. He had to. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No.” Yuuri blinked his confusion – how could Viktor ever think that _he’d_ done something wrong? Viktor was kind, intrinsically _good_ in a way that a lot of people weren’t. He cared in a way that nobody else ever had done about Yuuri. This would all have been so much easier if he didn’t. “Of course not.” 

Silence exhaled between them, and it wasn’t the usual, comfortable silence of watching the television together after a long day apart. This was gnawing kind of silence. It ate away at Yuuri, devouring the slither of warmth that being around Viktor dilated into his bones. _What if I’ve ruined it?_ But then, he thought, maybe that was what needed to be done. He didn’t want to _hurt_ Viktor so, maybe, he would have to Hurt him. 

But then Viktor’s palm was splayed like a map against Yuuri’s shoulder and _no this is real and solid and now and I know it’s so selfish but I’m not giving it up. Not yet._  

“What am I to you, Yuuri?” Viktor’s voice was soft and searching, a net cast out to sea. “Am I just a friend?” Yuuri found himself shaking his head because, no, _just a friend_ didn’t even begin to cover it. “A parental figure, a guardian?” Yuuri shook his head again, more surely this time because thinking of _Viktor_ and _parental_ in the same sentence felt _wrong_. He could feel Viktor’s rigidity exhale out of him and thought _good_. “A lover?” 

Breath spluttered out of Yuuri in a flurry, and he could feel frost glazing over his fingertips. His hand slipped into his pocket, to caress the bowl of his prize teaspoon. Makkachin, who was looped loosely around herself on the carpet in front of the television, looked over at them. Yuuri could see her smug smile and thought _shut up._  

“A. A lover?” Yuuri tripped over his words, getting snagged on the corner of Viktor’s smirk. Viktor was teasing him, _of course he was,_ but it didn’t feel like being laughed at. “Me?” 

“No. _Me._ To _you_.” Viktor’s face crowded to the left as it scrunched in thought. “Actually yes, you. To me. And me to you.” Impish laughter skipped from Viktor, and although the sound pulled Yuuri up into a smile – how could it not – he didn’t laugh back. He shifted away. _Too close_. “We hold hands. We hug. We _fit_ together. When I’m next to you, I feel like I’m the person I’m meant to be.” 

“Viktor-” 

“You’re beautiful. You _are._ I mean, look at you.” Yuuri looked down at himself; he was in a too-big set of pyjamas that billowed about him, drowned him. The buttons of the shirt weren’t done up quite right, so that one in the middle had to be skipped over. Scarlet touched his cheeks. “You’re adorable. Wonderful. Inside and out.” 

Yuuri shook his head, shifting further until he was bounded in by the arm of the sofa. _This is too much_ prickled all over Yuuri, engulfing him like the open mouth of a fire. His spine itched and arched as he coiled in on himself. _You wouldn’t think those things if you knew what I am. This isn’t fair._  

“Yuuri, I.” Viktor shook his head. He stained his hand down over his face and, for a horrible heart-skip of a moment, Yuuri suspected him of being upset. But then no – Viktor was _smiling_. It looked like a horizon. “ _I love you_.”

“ _No_. Viktor. Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

“But it’s true.” Viktor’s face smudged into something softer, his eyes open as a bedtime story, and Yuuri had to look away. “I love you, Yuuri. I have done since I found you. I. I think you were _sent_ to me.”

Yuuri sprung onto his feet. He couldn’t breathe, he needed to move, to find air, to make his heart pump hard enough to expel the venom out from his veins. His hand squeezed around his spoon and he felt as small bleed as it snapped. Almost instantly, it fissured together again, the bowl held to the handle by a coil of ice.

This couldn’t be happening. It just _couldn’t._ Knights don’t end up with monsters. Yuuri knew how he felt about Viktor, he could deal with that. But not with Viktor _reciprocating._

“Yuuri?” Viktor’s voice was an ache.

“You don’t mean that. You _can’t._ Viktor, please, _please_ tell me you didn’t mean what you just said.”

A pause infiltrated them. Yuuri could feel his hamstrings quaking, his calves warping. Viktor pushed himself back into the corner of the couch, rubbing a hand tiredly over his eyes. 

“I can’t because I never want to lie to you, Yuuri.” He sighed, the sound a sharp, throwaway thing. Yuuri had never felt so cold. “We can forget I ever said anything, okay? Things can be exactly how they were and I won’t ever bring this up again, because I care about you so much that what I feel, it. It doesn’t matter to me, not if it isn’t what you want. So we’ll forget this and pretend like normal. If you can do one thing for me.” He waited for Yuuri to nod. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel the same.” 

“I’m not _like_ you, Viktor,” Yuuri’s voice was a wet flurry. His eyes stuck to the carpet, flicked to the wall – looking anywhere but at Viktor. He’d poured petrol over everything, and he was about to strike a match. “You know I’m not. I _know_ you do.” 

“You’re special.” 

“No!” Yuuri’s voice rang out as a sharp shot, an arctic breeze fracturing and rushing out of him from all angles. They were trapped in Perspex. The world outside ceased to exist. Makkachin ducked her head down under her paws. “I’m not _special_ , Viktor. I’m _dangerous_.” Tears beaded in his eyes, Swarovski razor blades. “I’m a _monster.”_

“No, Yuuri, you’re not.” Viktor’s words were hug-soft and, _oh,_ how Yuuri wanted to fall into them. He wanted nothing more than to dive into Viktor’s arms and burrow himself away in the older man’s chest, to feel the warm pulse of Viktor’s heart. Because he _did_ love Viktor – it gilded his every thought, added a dimension of warmth that had never been there before – and he knew he was damned for it. “Please. Trust me.” 

“I do.” Yuuri rubbed his fist over his nose, knuckle-first, desperate to stop his sniffling because he was _twenty-three_ and how was he supposed to show Viktor he was _dangerous_ when he had a runny nose and patchy cheeks? “It’s myself I don’t trust. Not when it comes to you.”  

Viktor moved to get up, to go to Yuuri, to tuck him back together again, but no sooner had the thought formed than the front door was slamming full-stop shut, and Yuuri was gone. Viktor hadn’t even seen him move.

 

* * *

 

Viktor couldn’t make himself be still. He just _couldn’t_. How had it gone so wrong so quickly? Of all the love-confession scenarios he had pictured – and he had picture a fair few – this had not been amongst them. He’d never entertained the idea of his love being unrequited because, really, he _knew_ it wasn’t. He caught the way Yuuri looked at him when the younger man thought Viktor unaware, the slight staccato jump to the nervous energy that shrouded Yuuri whenever Viktor got close, the way the two of them just slotted together, that when they did it felt like existence on a whole other plane. The two of them coming together felt like the forming of worlds; when they were together, something like _home_ formed and flowed upwards, sheltering them like an umbrella. 

_A monster. Yuuri had called himself a monster._ Of all the things that had been said, this was perhaps the one that bothered Viktor the most, cut him so deeply that it was taking a while for his body to realise that it should be bleeding. Because, in that moment, Yuuri had sounded like he truly hated himself. And Yuuri deserved so much better than that. Maybe there _was_ something different about the younger man, Viktor knew there was; but it was part of what made Yuuri _Yuuri_ , and Viktor wouldn’t have had him any other way. 

Pacing the length of the living room, Makkachin at his heels, Viktor still knew all of this to be true. Yuuri _did_ love him – he was more sure of it than ever – but still, he had been rejected. At which point had things changed course from _angels singing and biplane banner waving_ to _oh god I fucked up_? Viktor wasn’t sure. And it was the uncertainty, an uncertainty he had never felt before, that hurt the most. If he knew what he’d done wrong then he would at least be able to _understand_ and then never make the same mistake again. 

His insides felt sticky, the simple act of breathing clagging up his throat. A feeling that he could only describe as absence-of-Yuuri washed through him like Anti-Freeze, prickling in sharp fractals, puncturing his lungs and stomach. Over the past couple of months, Yuuri had become as much a part of Viktor’s life as his heartbeat, as much a part of his world as the sky. The second Yuuri had vanished through that door – precisely nine minutes and thirteen, _fourteen_ seconds ago – everything had spiralled back into stagnant greyness. Viktor couldn’t go back to that. To living in monochrome and at room temperature. It wouldn’t _be_ living. 

He hadn’t tried to chase after Yuuri, even though everything in him burnt with a visceral need to do so. But this wasn’t about what Viktor wanted or needed; the only thing he cared about was Yuuri, and Yuuri wanted to be away from him. He needed space. And Viktor respected that. He’d meant what he said – he didn’t want anything if Yuuri didn’t want it too. He wanted Yuuri to come back, to fall into his arms, to fill the hole in his soul that Viktor hadn’t even realised was empty until Yuuri had dropped into his life. But he didn’t want Yuuri back unless _Yuuri_ wanted to be there. There is no joy in keeping a butterfly in a glass jar. 

Viktor was snapped out of his thoughts by the soft click of the front door. Warmth touched his fingertips. 

“Yuuri!” He bounded into the passage, to the front door, Makkachin yapping along in her own greeting. 

Only, it wasn’t Yuuri. It was Yurio, the teenager bundled up in a charcoal coat that zipped up right to his thin lips, his blonde hair bobbing about the curve of his cheeks. For a moment, Viktor was sure, he saw Yurio’s eyes widen, turn to emeralds, the puppy-fat of his cheeks showing as he smiled. Before Viktor could catch himself, his own beam dropped. Yurio blinked, and then his face deflated. Glazed over in metal and ice. 

“Oh.” Yurio nodded once, and that was enough. “You meant _Yuuri_. Of course.” 

Viktor stayed were he was, pinned down by the weight of _great now everyone hates you_ , but Makkachin plodded tentatively forwards to press her face against the teenager’s knee. Yurio’s hands flexed for a moment, paused into staticity, and then he allowed his knuckles to graze against the poodle’s head, just behind her ears. 

Yurio heaved out of his coat, and Viktor watched as the action made his charge wince. Because there, spanning from just beneath Yurio’s left ear to the peak of his chin, was a roadrash of grazing, specs of gravel glinting, embedded there like diamonds on velvet. Fingers of dried blood scratched down the side of the teenager’s neck. 

“Yurochka. What.” Viktor had to swallow – all of the moisture had evaporated from his mouth, making it a bleak, cavernous place. “What happened?” 

Viktor ambled forward, reaching to glove Yurio’s face with his hands, to inspect the damage. He could remember the first time Yurio had come home with a scrape on his knee; he’d plied the pre-teen with chocolate and Disney movies until he was distracted enough to endure the acidic agony of disinfectant. Even then, it had made the boy whimper and, afterwards, Viktor had quelled his own guilt by bundling Yurio up in his arms and pledging his fledgling trench coat fund to buying Yurio a toy of his choice (the child had chosen the fluffiest cat plush Viktor had ever seen). That night, Viktor had been unable to sleep for the cacophony of _what if he gets hurt again what if I lose him oh god I need to protect him_. Every time Yurio came home hurt, those first, cardinal thoughts ran through Viktor’s head. 

But Yurio jumped away from him, glaring in a way that hurt Viktor deep down into his bones because, sure, he’d seen the teenager look at other people like that before, but never at _him_. 

“Yurochka.” 

“Don’t. You don’t get to call me that. Just because your stupid little pet’s gone missing. I’m not some fucking stand-in.” 

“What?” Viktor stumbled back, blinking his confusion. His insides felt vacuous and suddenly everything was too much. He wanted Yuuri home and tucked under his arm. He want Yurio to never hurt again and to just _trust_. “I never. What? Yurio. _Yuri_.” 

“I’ve been coming home like this for _weeks_ and you haven’t batted a fucking eyelid.” He tossed his head, his hair falling away, and if Viktor squinted he could just make out the suggestions of violet storm clouds. “Not that I need your help, old man.” 

_I didn’t know. But that isn’t good enough. I should have known. He’s my brother. No. He’s my kid. I’m supposed to protect him. How didn’t I know?_  

“Please, Yuri. Look, I. I’ll clean it up for you!” Viktor sounded like he was begging. “I’ll clean you up, and then we can watch movies together. All night. Like we used to. _Jungle Book_ and _Lilo and Stitch_ and _Tarzan._ All your favourites.” 

“Viktor, I haven’t watched those movies in _years._ I’m not a little kid anymore. I’m not a _child_.” Yurio was spitting his words in a blaze of fire, but Viktor knew he had to let himself burn. It was like that with Yurio, but never before had it been quite like _this_. “I never was.” 

Viktor could feel the floor falling away from him, the roots that had firmly plugged him into the earth warping and breaking. Yurio was a constant. Yurio was his _home,_ just as much as he was Yurio’s. It was the two of them, two lost boys, against the world. Apart from, it wasn’t. Not anymore. It was the _three_ of them, and Viktor was no longer a boy. The three of them – the boy with bruises, the man who didn’t look at the stars, and the creature who fell from the sky – against the world. Their family was changing but, Viktor now knew, Yurio didn’t see it as expanding. Yurio saw his family as shrinking down to an army of one. 

This time, when Viktor reached to tilt the teenager’s head up into the light, Yurio didn’t protest. He refused to look at Viktor though, which hurt but at the same time it didn’t because _I need to make sure he’s okay it doesn’t matter if he hates me._  

“This looks nasty, Yuri.” Viktor tilted Yurio’s face this way and that, trying to find an angle that didn’t cut a story of _failure_ through the light. “What happened? I thought you were at homework club.” The only reply he got was a sharp slice of a shrug, punctuated by a hollow bark of laughter. “Yurochka.” 

“Think this looks bad?” There was a glint of cockiness to those oak-leaf green eyes and Viktor felt something in him relax. “You should see the other guy.” 

Here, Viktor found himself torn. His instant emotion was pride, a _give ‘em hell kid_ kind of monologue warming through his veins. But his secondary emotion – the one that his head was telling him to feel – was anger. This was the sort of thing guardians were supposed to punish, wasn’t it? Fighting isn’t the kind of life skill you want your child to be learning. But, maybe, Viktor did. A persistent _something_ told him it was important for Yurio to be able to defend himself. 

“Good.” He ruffled Yurio’s hair and was oddly touched by the moment’s pause before the youngster tried to duck away. “But the other guy isn’t my concern. _You_ are. We’re family, Yuri. You know that, don’t you? So let me look after you.” 

These seemed to be the magic words, because moments later Viktor had Yurio perched on the kitchen counter whilst he rifled through their cupboards, searching for the first aid kit. He made a light bulb of a sound as his hands clamped around the white plastic box, emblazoned with a thick red cross. As Viktor turned back to face Yurio he noticed, with a dandelion-soft beat, that the teenager’s feet were a good reach from the linoleum. When Viktor rounded the map of fissures and dents with disinfectant, however, he noticed that Yurio didn’t so much as flinch, no tide of tears gathered in his ducts. The teenager just stared dead ahead, his wide eyes stagnant. It took several patches of gauze, held in place by bright pink Barbie plasters (the only kind they’d had at the discount store), before Viktor was satisfied. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, catching Yurio with a lopsided smile. 

“So, where’s The Name Stealer gone, then?” 

It was with a jolt that Viktor realised he hadn’t even _thought_ of Yuuri for the past ten minutes or so. The guilt clawed red into his cheeks. 

“Let me guess,” Yurio drawled, pulling his legs up onto the counter like a cat, “you had a row?” 

“Bingo.” 

“And it was your fault.” 

“Well.” Viktor blinked, his heart weighing down his gaze until it hit floor. “Maybe.” 

“Of course it was, Vitya.” Yurio shook his head, heaved out a long-suffering sigh. The pause reached into dormancy. But then Yurio kicked off of the counter and stepped up to Viktor, just close enough for his presence to be _felt_. “He’ll come back.” A beat. “Unfortunately.” 

“You. You think he will?” Viktor looked up from the floor. Makkachin’s ears perked, her tail starting to wag in a slow propeller of movement.

“Don’t be a moron, old man. Of course he will.” Yurio looked very much as though he were being dragged barefoot over broken glass. “He cares about you. A lot.”

And then Viktor was hugging onto Yurio, bone-warpingly tight. The teenager didn’t hug back, not really, but he didn’t shove Viktor away and that was sort of the same thing. It was nice, for the first time in months, to feel affection that didn’t burn cold. Not everything has to be an inferno.

_Besides,_ Yurio thought to himself, _if he doesn’t come back I’ll hunt him down_.

 

* * *

 

In a small, shoebox of a house clinging to the vacuous hinterland outskirts of St Petersburg, Phichit Chulanont had his heaters on high, the igloo of his kitchen painted with vapour every time he breathed. In each of his trouser pockets was a hamster, encapsulated in the loose fist of his hand, his thumb stroking along their spines as he tried to stop their shivering. He stepped forward and nearly slipped on a patch of black ice. He could see it reflected in his friend’s face; Yuuri’s pupils had turned to smoke and spread, filling the crystal ball of his eyes, even the whites. Where amethystine brown had once been was now a void, a placid lake in the dead of night.

“Yuuri.” Phichit kept his voice as soft as the creatures trembling against his palms. “I know you can’t help it, but it is getting _very_ cold in here.”

Yuuri’s head snapped away from the window to be facing Phichit, his back arching sharply up. His mouth slipped open to reveal teeth that resembled fistfuls of razor blades slammed into his gums, at all different angles to accommodate as many as possible. He was an apex predator, and on some primal level Phichit was scared of him. Apart from he wasn’t. Not really, not in the ways that mattered.

Phichit sighed, and the sound was a petal hitting the floor. He stepped forward again, towards his friend, and his hamsters squealed.

“Hey.” Phichit clicked his fingers. “Yuuri. Come on.” One of his hamsters poked its head out of Phichit’s pocket, her nose twitching, and suddenly Yuuri went very, _very_ still. Phichit followed his line of sight. “No. _No._ We’ve had this talk before. My hamsters are _not_ food.” Yuuri’s nostrils flared, frost-fractalled air puffing out like smoke. Phichit could feel a slight shake starting, the epicentre of it in the back of his throat. _He’s not human. That’s the first thing you learn. No matter how much I might think he’s my friend, first and foremost, he’s not human._ “Snap out of it, Katsuki.” Yuuri tilted his head to the side, that puppy-like gesture of gentle confusion enough to enable Phichit to breathe again. “There’s a steak in the fridge. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s the best I’ve got.” 

The fridge was slamming shut before Phichit had even finished speaking. He blinked, and there Yuuri was, sat on the kitchen floor with his legs coiled into a basket, his face buried in his hands – or, rather, in the thick slab of raw meat cradled in them. Yuuri’s entire body shook with the force of his jaw, with the snap-slice of his teeth. Rivulets of blood constellated on his cheeks. Seeing that his friend was distracted, Phichit took the opportunity to sprint upstairs and deposit his hamsters safely behind bars. He paused outside his bedroom door, and then decided to lock it. _Not that a locked door could stop Yuuri Katsuki._

Phichit stepped back into the kitchen, his movements near-silent with well-practiced fluidity but still, Yuuri heard him and his head snapped up, quick as a shadow. The younger man let out a sigh of relief; Yuuri’s eyes were two islands of earthy brown surrounded by seas of white, and his mouth, smothered in an echo of blood, was no longer bulging with switchblade teeth. Yuuri wasn’t human, Phichit both knew and respected that, but sometimes it was easier to pretend that he was. 

“Is that better?” 

Yuuri nodded, flicking his eyes down to the cardinal red seeping into his skin, his face drawing in around the eyes. Phichit could read that look and it made him _ache_. 

“Hey.” Phichit dropped deftly to the floor, kneeling opposite Yuuri. His face was balmy-soft, gentle, open. Phichit never wanted anyone to be hurting. “What’s wrong?” 

“I. I.” Yuuri’s hands curled into fists and on anyone else it would have been an act of aggression, but Phichit knew the truth of it; _he doesn’t want to see the blood._ “I _ruined_ it, Phichit. Everything. I. Everything was so good but now it’s all broken.” Yuuri threw his hands to the floor, and where his palms touched down, ice blossomed. “I can’t stay there anymore. I can’t see Viktor again.”

“What?” Something lurched in Phichit’s gut. “Why not? I thought you _liked_ him. And I know for sure that he’s head-over-heels for you.”

“That’s the problem!” His pupils started to bleed again, his chest heaving as he forced breaths in and out of his nose. A shiver scratched its way up Phichit’s back but he didn’t complain. He didn’t do anything other than touch a hand to Yuuri’s and it burnt, blistered, screamed, but Phichit didn’t let go; he was not in the business of abandoning his friends. The black smoke shrunk back down into Yuuri’s pupils, and suddenly his irises shimmered into a watery, iridescent lavender colour, stardust pooling in the corners. “I’m a _monster,_ Phichit. You know it’s true so don’t deny it.” He didn’t. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You won’t,” Phichit said lowly, after a pause. He sounded as sure as a preacher. “I know you won’t.” 

“You don’t know that. What if. What if I _kill_ him?” A sob fractured from Yuuri, the sound splintering through the room. Phichit gave his hand a squeeze. 

“You won’t.”

“How can you know that?” 

Yuuri looked up at Phichit, and as their eyes met, Yuuri’s clinging on tight, a memory of long ago swept over the younger man. A memory of a forest clearing bathed in moonlight, of hugging at his mother’s skirt, of _don’t be afraid they are good people_ , of a stumbling, clumsy, podgy Yuuri being nudged forwards by a teddy bear of a woman swathed in floating robes, of _say hello to Yuuri, Phichit, he’s a new friend for you to play with._ Of Phichit, at those sacred words of _friend_ and _play,_ jetting forwards, only for Yuuri to hiss and jump back, two towering wings popping out and shrouding him in shadow. Of _please don’t hurt me I don’t mean to be different I don’t like being cold._ Of _it’s okay I’m not going to hurt you do you want to play tag with me I’m the best at tag._ Of _we’re friends, right, Phichit?_ Of _best friends, Yuuri._

“I know it because I know you, Yuuri. You’re my best friend.” Phichit had never meant anything so much, and the sincerity weighed him down. He was lifted, however, by the slight suggestion of a smile on Yuuri’s lips. “You love Viktor, don’t you?” 

“I.” Needles of red prickled over Yuuri’s cheeks but then he swallowed, puffed out his chest. Phichit had never seen Yuuri look so sure. “I do. I don’t know how or when or why, but I do. I think it’s the only thing I know anymore.” 

“Then you won’t hurt him. We can never hurt the ones we love. Not really.” Phichit paused a moment and then slid his phone out of his jacket pocket. He opened Instagram, flicked through to Viktor’s profile, and offered it to Yuuri. Carefully, with both hands, Yuuri took the phone, the rings of his eyes reshaping and resizing until they adjusted to the glare of the screen. “I’ve shown you Instagram before, haven’t I? It’s where humans put pictures of things they love. That’s Viktor’s page.”

Concentration was written into the creased lines of Yuuri’s forehead as he scrolled carefully with his thumb. He tiled his head to the side, and Phichit grinned. 

“But, Phichit, these are all photographs of me.” 

Phichit took his phone back, pausing to see which image it was that had made the penny drop. _Ah, yes, this is a good one._

There, on the screen, was Yuuri sound asleep on a sofa, dwarfed by the flood of a soft-looking grey jumper monogramed with a _V_ and a _N_. One leg was dangling off the edge, the other thrown up over the back of the chair. His hair was a scribble, his thumb was touched to the pastel purse of his lips. Makkachin was flopped in a thick stripe over his stomach, her head tilted up onto the gentle incline of his chest. The caption read _sleeping beauties._  

“Exactly. He _loves_ you, and you _love_ him. Some things need to be complicated. I know that. But not this.” Phichit took Yuuri’s hand in both of his, doming them. He looked down and grinned at the specks of snow hitting his palms – a game they’d played as children, making snowglobes. “Let yourself have this, Yuuri. You deserve it. Viktor does too.” 

For a moment, everything was as still and silent as a thick winter sky. But then Yuuri nodded, just the once, and jumped to his feet. Phichit followed, but by the time he was standing, Yuuri was already halfway across the city.

 

* * *

 

A handful of heartbeats later, Yuuri was outside Viktor’s front door. Rain plastered his hair tightly to his head, the droplets turning to beads of ice as they rolled down his skin. As he had passed people on the street, at a speed that could only be defined as flight, they had shivered, and Yuuri had envied them. To feel the cold is to acknowledge the absence of warmth, and how could Yuuri miss something he’d never had? 

Apart from, he did have it. When he was with Viktor, when Viktor held his hand or smiled at him or held him close. In those moments, collected up and locked away in his memory as something precious, Yuuri had an understanding of what warmth could be.

In his pyjama shirt pocket, Yuuri felt for his teaspoon. His other hand reache, and wrapped against the peeling paint of the front door to the Nikiforov-Plisetsky-Katsuki house. His bones suddenly felt too heavy. His brain lurched forwards in his skull. His bare feet weren’t flat enough. His breath was turning to icicles before it could get to where it needed to go. _What if Viktor’s changed his mind? What if I tell him the truth and he hates me?_ As much as Yuuri wanted to turn tail and run off into the safe darkness of the night, he didn’t. Because he _needed_ to see Viktor. He needed to feel warm. 

“You took your fucking time.” Yurio’s words scratched him before he’d even realised that the front door had flung open. “Viktor’s upstairs. Moping.” Yuuri stepped forward, but the teenager blocked his way. A fire burnt in Yurio’s eyes and then, _oh,_ Yuuri understood, and he felt that little bit safer. Or, rather, he felt that _Viktor_ was that little bit safer, which was sort of the same thing. “Hurt him and you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.” 

The low tightness, the misericorde sharpness, of Yurio’s voice told Yuuri that this wasn’t one of his myriad empty threats. This was not teenage surliness. This was choreographed danger, and he knew how this dance ended. Yuuri’s back arched, he could feel his secondary set of teeth pricking at his gums but he swallowed them down. 

“Thank you,” Yuuri said, and his voice was a solid thing. He bowed his head low, held his hands out. The rain had washed most of the blood from his skin and, stood there in his sopping wet pyjamas, Yuuri knew he must look ridiculous, the least threatening thing in the world. But he also knew that Yurio knew better. “I hope you’re a man of your word.” 

A shot of flattery winged through Yurio’s expression – maybe at being respected, or perhaps at being called a man – and he stepped aside. Yuuri nodded, once, and then aired past him. Nobody could have seen or heard him speed up the stairs. 

He paused outside the door of Viktor’s bedroom, coming to a stop so suddenly that his hair frilled and his neck cracked. He knew what the next step was; he ought to knock on the door. And then there Viktor would be, _warm_ and _home_ and _right where I’m supposed to be._ But what if he didn’t want to see Yuuri? What if, over the past hour or so, he’d somehow come to his senses? Then there was the ethical issue of _if I let us love each other then I’m putting his life in danger._ That thought evaporated as soon as it formed for two reasons. Firstly, if Yuuri himself lost control, Yurio would put him back in line. Secondly, if anyone else were to come after them, Yuuri swore to himself, he would do everything in his not inconsiderable power to protect his humans. He hated confrontations, loathed them, but his body was a war machine and he would use it for Viktor and Phichit, and Yurio too. 

Yes. Phichit was right. Some things do have to be complicated. But not this. Not two people loving each other. 

So Yuuri knocked. 

The door sprung open and there Viktor was, smiling like winter sunshine. His eyes – the sturdy, constant aquamarine that they always were – widened like hug-expectant arms. They were deep, reeling Yuuri in, and Yuuri was perfectly happy to drown. Before anything could be said, Viktor was hauling the shorter man in close and Yuuri breathed in the scent of warmth. 

“You’ve come back. _Thank God._ ” He pressed a kiss to Yuuri’s forehead, and the tingle of it rippled outwards in rich blossoms. “I’m sorry, Yuuri. I shouldn’t have said all of that. It was unfair-”

Viktor’s flurry of speech was stoppered by the gentle press of Yuuri’s fingertip against his lips. The younger man stepped back and something like confidence ran through him because this, this was Viktor and they _loved_ each other. Blue eyes swivelled down like starfall onto Yuuri’s fingertip, and Yuuri wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen the Russian look so lost for words. It made him feel some kind of powerful. 

“Yuuri?” 

“I love you too, Viktor.” 

Neither could be exactly sure who initiated the kiss, just that they met each other halfway and it was a soft, pillowy thing. A simple thing. Close-mouthed, but earnest and it felt like walking barefoot on a sun-baked beach. It lasted a heartbeat, and then Yuuri stepped back, biting his lower lip to button in his joy. Viktor, on other hand, was doing the wide, open, heart-shaped beam that had captured Yuuri’s. 

A moment fluttered by. Viktor tiptoed a finger around the curve of Yuuri’s cheek, his mouth drawing in and then expanding outwards, and in again like he wasn’t entirely sure that this whole thing was real, like he couldn't wrap his mind around it. 

“Was that okay?” Viktor’s voice was heavy with concern. Yuuri fell in love with him all over again. 

“Y-yes. Yes, very okay.” Yuuri swallowed, groping for something decent to say.  “That was my first kiss.” 

He cringed at his own words because, _really_ , twenty-three and never been kissed. But Viktor’s face softened and he stepped closer, bringing up a second hand to cup Yuuri by the chin. The taller man touched their foreheads together, completing the circuit. For the first time in a long time, Yuuri found himself believing the fairytale that, maybe, he wasn’t a monster, that he was worth something. 

“Can I have your second kiss too?” Viktor’s voice was a curved, smoky thing and Yuuri breathed it in, let it inflate his lungs. He nodded, and Viktor kissed him; another angel-feather peck. “And your third?” Yuuri’s cheeks swelled with his smile as he nodded. He met Viktor halfway, this time their lips lingering like two passing lovers in the street. When Yuuri pulled away, infinitesimally, he felt full of light. He giggled, and given the look it produced on Viktor’s face, he decided it was a gift he would give more often. “What about your fourth?” 

By the sixth kiss, Viktor had guided Yuuri over to his bed, to perch them both on the edge like a cliffhanger. By the eighth, Yuuri had clambered into Viktor’s lap, his knees hugging the older man’s hips and, briefly, he thought _where is this going I want to get there._  

It was kiss number eleven when it happened. Yuuri had never felt quite so free, but at the same time he’d never felt quite so anchored either. The problem (and the joy) was that he was anchored somewhere else, on the shores of a paradise that only Viktor knew the way to. He was not in his own body. He couldn’t focus on anything other than the tide of Viktor’s tongue, the beach of his lips, the archipelago of his body, the way Viktor exhaled Yuuri’s name with every breath. How could he think of anything else when his entire universe had narrowed down to Viktor? 

Yuuri was so lost in his eleventh kiss that he didn’t have time to register, let alone resist, the push of his second set of teeth against his gums. Even when he did realise this, the full implication didn’t quite hit him until Viktor sprang backwards with a gasp of pain. 

But then, _shit_ , Yuuri’s reaction was explosive. He shot so fast and hard from the bed that he almost sent himself straight through the far wall, he shrank himself down into the small of his back and he started spitting. The spray that hit the carpet was red. Blood red. More precisely, it was the exact shade of blood red that ran through Viktor’s veins. It sang to him.

Viktor was sat, dumbstruck, on his bed, one hand to his punctured lip. He blinked up at Yuuri, and the younger man was dully surprised to find that Viktor wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t even angry. No, Viktor Nikiforov was grinning at him like an idiot. 

“ _Yuuri._ ” Viktor’s voice was a purr and it plucked some of the nerves from Yuuri. The Russian slid to his feet and padded over, eyes as wide as the mouth of a starving child. “Open your mouth.” In dire need of direction, Yuuri did as instructed. He couldn't find it in himself to deny Viktor anything. As he had done so many times before, Viktor cupped Yuuri’s face with hand and carved the shape of it with a fingertip from the other. The circuit wasn’t just completing, it was overloading. A crackle of electricity. “You’re a _vampire_.” 

“A vampire?” Yuuri blinked, tilting his head to the side. “I’m not some storybook fantasy, Viktor.” 

“Then, what _are_ you? An angel?” Viktor’s grin slipped into something softer, and guilt rang out in Yuuri because _I’ve been lying to him all this time why did I ever think I needed to lie to Viktor?_  

“I’m not an angel. I’m about as far from that as you can get, actually.” 

A glow of excitement – and perhaps, Yuuri thought, of lust – haloed Viktor’s face as he breathed out; “a demon?” 

“Viktor.” Yuuri pressed his lips together, buttoning in the confession for one last moment, telling his conscience  _speak now or forever hold your peace_ and the peace held. “I’m a dragon.”

It felt like falling. But that was okay, because Viktor was right there to catch him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading, and a big thank you to those who commented on the last chapter! Also, I'm sorry for making this chapter so long - I'm not entirely sure how that happened.
> 
> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. There are three main reasons as to Yuuri's reluctance to act on his feelings for Viktor. The first two are stated in the chapter (he's scared of hurting Viktor, and he's scared of other people/dragons hurting Viktor because of him) but the third isn't; Yuuri is scared of opening himself up to Viktor, even though he does trust him. He's never had love like that before, and it's frightening for him - although, not necessarily in a bad way. Viktor senses this, I think, and that's why he makes a conscious effort not to be too overpowering/pushy - even though that doesn't really work, because whilst this is a frightening, new experience for Yuuri, it's an exciting one for Viktor. 
> 
> 2\. I wanted Yuuri breaking his teaspoon and then fixing it with ice to be sort of symbolic (pretentious, I know) even though it's a really tiny detail. So, he breaks the spoon because he is extraordinarily strong - this is a symbol of him being dangerous and 'bad' as a result of him being what he is. But then he fixes it was ice - it is what's different about him that makes him special, makes him 'good'. I don't know if that makes any sense.
> 
> 3\. So who knows what Yuuri is, pre-end-of-chapter? Phichit does. Yurio knows Yuuri isn't human, and he has strong suspicions, but he isn't one hundred percent sure. Viktor knows that there's something 'special' about Yuuri, that he seems to be directly linked to the sudden cold snap in his house, that he's different, but Viktor is so blinded by love and a desire for adventure that he doesn't care.
> 
> 4\. Why is Yurio hurt? Let's just say, he most definitely was not at homework club. In fact, he doesn't even go to school. As he's said before, Viktor is under his protection. 
> 
> 5\. In terms of Yurio, Viktor is playing two roles; parent and brother. He wants to mess around and tease and be best friends with Yurio, but at the same time he knows he has to look after and raise and protect him too. He struggles to hit the right balance between the two, just as he struggles to figure out if he should treat Yurio as a child or as an adult - he leans towards treating Yurio like a child because, in a lot of ways, children are easier to protect. 
> 
> 6\. I've really tried to drive in the fact that money is not in abundance for Viktor (a lot of his furniture is described as being dumpster-dived for, when he wanted to buy a young Yurio a soft toy he had to spend his savings on it etc) - why? Because I wanted to show that he has a deeply caring nature; or, as Yurio described it in the first chapter, he has a hero complex. He's barely treading water, so to speak, yet he thinks nothing of sharing what he does have with Yurio and Yuuri (and Makkachin). He has a few nice things, mostly his clothes, but the rest of his money is poured into helping people. 
> 
> 7\. If Yurio hates Yuuri so much, why does he reassure Viktor he'll come back? Because he's deeply conflicted. Yurio knows that Yuuri=danger, but at the same time he also knows that Yuuri=happy Vitya. Also, Yuuri is nice to him; Viktor hasn't noticed the bruises etc, but last chapter Yuuri did and that means something to Yurio, even if Yurio himself doesn't quite realise that. Furthermore, it's not so much a hatred as a fear of being replaced - not that he'd admit that, not even to himself.
> 
> 8\. Why isn't Viktor freaking the hell out? Because he's starving for adventure, for excitement, and the idea of Yuuri being something other than human is a dream come true. Viktor's very much the kind of person who would die first in a horror movie. Also, it means that Yuuri trusts him, to tell him something like that, and the more Viktor knows about Yuuri, the better.
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter: a family meeting is held, questions are answered, and Viktor's ego gets grossly inflated.


	4. Little Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows on immediately from the last chapter :)

 

 

Yuuri looked at himself in the mirror, and the glass frosted over in whispers of ice. The constellation of buckles fastening his boots winked at him. As he pulled up the zipper of his leather jacket, Yuuri shuddered. He did not look like himself. Or, rather, he didn’t look like who he wanted to be. He looked dangerous – all sharp edges and,  _be careful_ , you’ll get cut just by looking. He could taste the delicious slice of Viktor’s blood clinging to the back of his throat, and it breathed through him in heady tendrils.  _Good_ , he thought and it felt like choking,  _I need to look dangerous, I need to make him see._

Across the hall, Yurio was staring himself down in the glass of his window. A black hood shrouded his head like night sky, every last flicker of blond tucked back inside it, the rim of it pulled forward so that his face was cast in a voluminous echo of shadow; anyone would have to get close to decipher his features, and by the time they did it would be too late. The hood belonged to a jacket, and the sleeves rippled down his arms, forming fingerless gloves where cuffs should have been. Atop this jacket was a sort of waistcoat made of a thick, charcoal-coloured material, fastened by a regiment of glinting silver buttons. Yurio might have looked like any moody teenager going through a Phase. That was the point. When he moved, though, even with the slight plate-shift of breathing, Yurio could feel it; the cool kiss of metal dancing against his skin.  _Chainmail._ If Yurio had ever had a mother to hug, he imagined that hugging her would have felt like this. He felt into the pocket of his black skinny jeans – the left one, the one in which he’d slit through the skin of the fabric to make a sort of secret holster – and his fingers crept around the coil of a handle. He caught the sharp jut of his reflection, more of a suggestion in the murky pane of glass than something solid, like smoke. The flash of his eyes, green screams of fire, were a warning.  _Good_ , he thought and it felt like power,  _I need to look dangerous, I need to make him see._

In Viktor’s room, Yuuri was poking on his gloves. The finger holes were hollow tree trunks breathing airily around his knuckles. Opportunities to hunt in St Petersburg were few and far between, especially since Viktor had caught him coming home bloody, and it was starting to show. Raw steak, like that Phichit had given him earlier, was okay, but it wasn’t enough. He needed  _life_. A grey sort of laugh pushed through his nostrils at that thought; he didn’t need life, he needed to drain it away, he needed to  _kill_. Yes, that was better. Saying he needed life was like calling a bullet hole a kiss. What Yuuri needed was to kill. Looking at himself in the mirror, his sharp angles pressing forwards to spell out a written warning, it was easy to believe. He was a monster and he needed to make Viktor, sweet and kind and  _good_ Viktor, see. Which was why he’d sent Viktor – who had been smiling and grinning and muttering  _you’re a dragon_ to himself – downstairs, with a promise of  _I need to show you everything, I need to tell you everything_. It was why he’d knocked on Yurio’s door and told him  _gear up_ , because that was all he needed to say. He had to tell Viktor everything, he knew he did. In certain lights, Yuuri was capable of liking himself, of thinking he was someone worth something. Staring at himself in that mirror right then, a roar of night and moonlight, he hated himself. It was only fair that Viktor got to see all sides of Yuuri – the killer, the hunter, the  _monster_  – before he fell to the conclusion of love. He had to see that Yuuri was the closest thing imaginable to Hell on Earth. He had to know the dangers before Yuuri could let him in. Yuuri had to at least give Viktor a chance to escape. 

Yurio turned to leave his room, hood down, his face drawn into a lethal sort of blankness. He knocked on Viktor’s bedroom door. Because, yes, now was the time for the truth to out. Now was the time for Fate to show her hand to Viktor because this was it; The Brink, The Jump, the fifty-ninth minute of The Eleventh Hour. Yurio suddenly found himself swallowing, his eyes swelling in a way that stung but  _no I am not a little boy._ Because now was the time for Yurio to bury the life he had carved out for himself, the person he could have been if only the world was a fairer place. 

When Yuuri stepped out into the hallway his eyes caught Yurio and something in him bled. After a heartbeat, he reached up a hand to gently muss at the teenager’s hair.  _No matter what he is, he is a child first._  Yurio scowled and shoved him away almost instantly.  _Almost._

“Come on then, Jabberwocky. Let’s get this over with.”

 

* * *

 

The three of them were sat around the kitchen table like pieces on a chess board, stuck in place until permitted to move, but each with a different, distinct role. 

Everything in Viktor was jittering and skipping, like fledgling flames, and he just couldn’t stop smiling because  _love_ and  _adventure_ and  _I kissed Yuuri_   _who is a dragon._ Dragon. The word kept bubbling forwards to the front of his head. Anyone else would have probably dismissed the claim as insanity, but nobody else knew Yuuri like Viktor did and it just  _fit._ It didn’t bother Viktor beyond the fact that Yuuri had felt the need to hide such a fundamental part of himself but then, Viktor couldn’t exactly hold that against him. A piece had slotted into place and completed the picture, that was all it was. And it was a picture Viktor wanted to get lost in. 

He flicked his gaze to Yurio, who had thrown himself into his usual chair and kicked his legs up onto the table, crossed at the ankles. There was no point in telling him to take his feet – clad in well-worn black and maroon trainers – off the table, so Viktor didn’t. Bigger fish to fry. 

He turned his attention back to Yuuri, wrapped up in black leather, and something in Viktor ached with hunger. Yuuri was playing at strength, Viktor could tell, in the way he was sat spear-straight, in the carved set of his face. But Viktor knew better. He reached to take one of Yuuri’s hands, pressed his palm to the snowflakes of Yuuri’s fingertips. Yuuri’s other hand was buried, as had become habit, in his pocket. Makkachin was under the table, her warmth haloing around Viktor’s legs, her head resting in Yuuri’s lap. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Viktor murmured. His thumb smudged half-moons against the mountain range of Yuuri’s knuckles. He wanted to know everything, every last star that made up the constellation of Yuuri Katsuki, but only if Yuuri wanted him to know. He only wanted to take what the younger man, no, what the  _dragon_ wanted to give him. “I already know everything that matters. I love every bit of you, Yuuri, even the parts I can’t see.” 

Yuuri’s eyes dropped to his lap and Viktor tried to catch them. He looked to Yurio for some kind of explanation, because the two had walked into the kitchen together, and there had been something there that hadn’t been before. The daggers of Yurio’s eyes, however, were planted firmly in Yuuri. A pang of jealousy rang out through Viktor’s bones at a low sort of frequency. 

“You need to know everything. You. You deserve to know everything.” Yuuri’s voice was soft but stinging, like the marks left by gravel pressed into skin. “I just. I don’t know where to begin.” There was a comma of a sigh, and Yuuri shut his eyes. After a chapter of silence, he nodded to himself. When he opened his eyes again, they were a wash of amethyst. It looked like clarity. “I’m a dragon. Not like in the legends. Obviously. I’m not a giant winged lizard.” He looked down at himself as though to check. Pink touched his cheeks and Viktor’s heart did beautiful things in his chest. “I’m just, me.” 

“There’s nothing  _just_  about you, Yuuri.” Viktor squeezed Yuuri’s hand and, when Yuuri squeezed back, a smile kissed to his face, it felt like singing. 

“Dragons, we’re different from you.” Yuuri took a deep breath, and on the release he exhaled his soul. “If you’re a lamb, I’m the wolf. We. We can move so fast you can’t even see us. I have teeth that could tear through your muscle like it's nothing. I’m so strong I could break your neck without even thinking about it.” Yuuri shifted closer to Viktor, their knees meeting between them. The contact felt like the soft, chalky dust of an incinerated moth. On his peripheral vision, Viktor saw that Yurio’s legs were no longer crossed, but that his feet were pressed flat down on the table in a declaration. “I’m designed to be the perfect killing machine.” 

A white-hot thrill tore through Viktor’s veins at the sharp, curving words. His eyes were pearl-wide and crawling over Yuuri like flies on meat because, well, he’d never wanted anymore as much, as viscerally, as deeply. Viktor knew that he should, perhaps, feel afraid and he was, but it wasn’t fear as he’d ever experienced it before; he could taste it, and it was delicious.

Yuuri frowned at Viktor, and the expression reminded the older man of watching Yuuri puzzle over the Russian papers as he tried to identify familiar phrases. The temperature in the room dropped like starfall, and Viktor watched, mesmerised, as Yuuri planted his hand on the table. For a moment, nothing happened. But then, it did. 

A vein of ice meandered from each of Yuuri’s splayed fingers. Each vein fractured and broke off, fractured and broke off, until a web of ice had netted the table. Yurio’s feet shot to the ground just in time to avoid being frozen. The hooks of Viktor’s smile were pulling up into his cheeks because this was the sort of thing that boys raised on dreams spent their entire lives looking for. Because he’d always held firm to the belief that  _life is so much more than nothing_ and now, it was. He skated a fingertip in a spiral on the rink of the table. 

Viktor looked back to Yuuri, full of so many questions that he didn’t care about answers. But it wasn’t Yuuri he found staring – no,  _glaring_ – back at him. It wasn’t a human. Where Yuuri’s eyes had been were two black abysses; no, when Viktor squinted, he realised that there  _were_ eyes there, but they were so black as to be void. The thing’s mouth was bulging as though an army were trapped inside, trying to stab and tear and swipe their way out – but Viktor had seen that before, upstairs in his bedroom that very evening. Yuuri’s lips peeled away to reveal a mishmash of razor blade teeth. Yuuri flowed up onto his feet, his back arched, a serpentine curve to his neck. 

Viktor shivered and it wasn’t because of the cold. 

“Alright, we get the picture. Teeth away, Jabberwocky.” It was Yurio, sharp and sure, suddenly on his feet too, his hand in his left pocket and he was smirking – but why was Yurio smirking when there was a dangerous  _thing_ in their kitchen and  _holy shit I should get Yurio out of here I am being such an irresponsible parent._ “Yuuri.” The teenager snapped his fingers. There was something cold and clinical to him that Viktor had never seen before. The ground shifted beneath him, a forced change of perspective. “Teeth  _away_.” 

Yuuri’s neck, led by the arrow of his head, twisted and coiled from side to side, the black of his eyes labyrinthine. But then he shut his mouth, blinked, and was still. When he opened himself up again, he was Yuuri. Viktor’s Yuuri. All the moisture in Viktor’s mouth crawled back down his throat, trickling away. He swallowed, and it was an effort. 

“You see?” Yuuri asked after a moment, eyes on the floor, his left knee shaking ever so slightly. Viktor fought the urge to bundle him up in his arms because still,  _still_ , Yuuri was the most precious thread running through the fabric of his life; he bought red to the grey. “I’m dangerous. I’m a predator.” There was a pause. “I need you to understand that. You need to know the risks.”

“I don’t care about the risks.” And then Viktor was standing too, gloving both of Yuuri’s hands in his. For a breath, each of the skin cells on Yuuri’s hands felt like minuscule needles, stabbing into Viktor’s palms, but then they thawed and all it felt like was love. “I care about  _you._ I  _love_ you.” The words spilt from Viktor and that was okay. He would give his soul freely. There was a half-hearted gagging sound from Yurio. “Nothing could ever take away from that. Love is unconditional.” 

“There’s more.” Now, though, Yuuri was smiling. The expression was folded up into his cheeks ever so slightly, like he was trying to hide it, and Viktor swore to himself that he would one day have Yuuri smiling without abandon. “I have wings.”

“ _Wings?”_  Viktor’s mouth curved into a heart shape with the force of his smile. Laughter drifted from him and the sound rubbed a sweet kind of colour onto Yuuri’s cheeks. “Can I see them? Can you show them to me? Where are they?”

Viktor watched, entranced, as Yuuri rolled one shoulder, and then the other, like he was slipping out of silk. There was a slither of a sound, like the whoosh-slice of a sliding door, like a child’s finger swiping along a line of words in a storybook. And then, the small St Petersburg kitchen was full of glimmering darkness. They were huge, towering things that reached to the floor and stretched to the ceiling, wide enough that each one would have wrapped around Yuuri twice over. They flexed slightly, only to curve around at the edges in an electric-quick response to the crashing of the washing up on the draining board scattering to the floor. Viktor was just within their amphitheatre, and it struck him how  _alive_ they were, like nightsky stretched over the poles of a tent. 

Viktor Nikiforov had not seen a great deal of extraordinary things in his lifetime but now, he was certain, he was in the presence of something wondrous. It felt like seeing fire for the first time. The light was beautiful, but the warmth was even better. 

The wings were thin, though, fragile-looking things and after a moment, they creased themselves up and slid back into two imperceptibly small slits in Yuuri’s jacket. 

“Can you  _fly_?” It was the one coherent thought in Viktor’s head. 

“Of course he can’t, moron.” Both of the older men looked around at the teenager, and Viktor only felt vaguely guilty at having forgotten that Yurio was there at all. His feet were shoulder-width apart, one knee bent into a sulky sort of slouch, his arms folded over his chest. If anything, Viktor thought, Yurio looked  _bored_ by the whole affair. He frowned at that thought, confusion wrinkling his forehead. “It’s been generations since the last flying dragon. They evolved out of it.” Yurio smirked down at his hands, where he was playing at picking dirt from his immaculate fingernails. “Jabberwocky here is more like a peacock. They’re for showing off. Intimidating rivals and attracting mates.” 

There was a pause. Viktor wetted his lower lip, his teeth stroking along it just sharply enough to anchor him. 

“I’ve seen your wings before,” he mumbled, piecing it together. He looked back to Yuuri, who suddenly seemed very interested in the floor. “I thought I was dreaming, but I wasn’t, was I?” After a sticky sort of pause, Yuuri nodded. Viktor was hugging him so quickly and so tightly, so  _warmly_ , that Yuuri had no choice but to let out a long, deep  _hissss,_ right from the back of his throat. The older man quickly smudged this into a soft purr, however, via the method of stroking Yuuri’s hair down. Everything swirled into glows and pastels as Yuuri thawed against Viktor, as he hugged back, his head slotting against the Russian’s shoulder as though it were carved to fit there. “You were trying to attract me! As a  _mate!”_ Yuuri spluttered at such a claim, which only served to amplify the swelling smile on Viktor’s face. “Well, it’s worked.” 

“First of all,” Yurio drawled, “ _gross_. Second of all, isn’t any of this going into your thick skull?” 

Things drifted to room temperature for Viktor as Yuuri peeled himself away. He felt strangely bare without Yuuri in his arms, like a deciduous tree in the dead of winter. It was an effort to look away from the man who was so much more than human. Trapped under Yurio’s stare, Viktor felt very much like a misbehaving child before a particularly feared teacher. 

“He’s a  _dragon_ , Viktor.” 

“Yes. I know.” 

“He’s  _dangerous_.” 

“Ah, I know he said that, but I’ll keep you safe, Yurochka. You know that, don’t you?” Viktor smiled and it was pillow of a thing, warm cocoa after a bad dream, food in your belly when there’s none in the cupboards. “Besides, Yuuri’s not  _really_ dangerous.” 

“Yes, Viktor.” The sharp cut of Yurio’s voice pushed Viktor back. “He is.” The teenager scraped a hand through his hair. There was coal dust smeared under his eyes and Viktor only just realised what it’s meant;  _he’s tired, he’s running on empty, I need to look after him_. “Yuuri, tell him what dragons eat.” The room was cast in a purgatory of silence. “Go on, sweet little dragon boy, tell your precious white knight what those sharp teeth of yours are for.” 

Under the table, Makkachin whined. Viktor looked back from Yurio to Yuuri, to see that the dragon had coiled in on himself, not frightened but defensive. Hurt scraped through Viktor’s throat and down into the walls of his lungs because, he could tell, Yuuri was hurting. He reached to take Yuuri’s hand again, to tuck him back together in some small way, but Yuuri backed away. Something heavy pressed its claws into Viktor’s chest. 

“I. Viktor, I’m telling you I’m dangerous because I’m dangerous to  _you.”_  Yuuri’s eyes – an inky shade of whiskey – held Viktor’s, and then broke off. “Dragons eat people. You’re prey.”

“I thought I was your mate,” Viktor pointed out dumbly, blinking. Because none of this made any shade of sense. Yuuri was soft and gentle and sweet, shy, not a  _killer_. Viktor’s stomach churned as it adjusted to the new weight of gravity. 

“You are.” Yuuri stopped himself, red prickling over his face and  _yes,_ Viktor thought,  _he’s my sweet soft boy, not a killer._  “I-I. I mean. It. I love you.” 

“I love you too.” Viktor’s features bled into one fluid, desperate blur. “That’s all that matters.” 

Yurio scoffed, and Viktor shot a glare at him. There was a time and a place for snark. 

“What?” Yurio’s mouth dropped open into tunnel, his eyes ballooning out, his arms thrown to the sides like exclamation points. “Viktor. Come  _on_. There is no way on this Earth that you are  _that_ desperate. The bar can literally not be that low.” He gestured wildly at Yuuri. “He  _eats_ people.” 

“No, I don’t,” Yuuri piped up. His voice was like quartz – clear, solid in a soft sort of way. Viktor found himself nodding along, as though he knew this to be true. This time when he reached to take Yuuri’s hand, the dragon answered the question of contact by knotting their fingers tightly together. This was something worth holding onto. “I prefer pigs, actually.” 

“Pigs.” Yurio nodded, his lips pressed tightly together in exasperation. “Of course you fucking do.” He snatched his line of sight back around to Viktor. When he spoke again, there was a high whine to the undertones of his voice, and it reminded Viktor of years ago, of two in the morning, of tears soaking through his t-shirt, of  _Vitya I don’t want the monster to get you promise you won’t leave me_. “You’re not safe when you’re around him. Okay, say we believe that he’s some kind of vegetarian – he’s still dangerous. He still  _wants_ to kill you. He’s a  _monster_.” 

For a long while, nothing was said. The only sound was the fiery panting of Yurio’s breathing, and the soft beat of Makkachin’s tail against the floor. Viktor turned his head to the side, unable to carry the weight of either Yuuri’s gaze ( _please believe that I’d never hurt you I love you so much I know I’m not worth anything not next to you but please)_ or the stiff shake of Yurio’s glare ( _I need you to be safe please I know he’s done so much good for you but please Viktor be selfless for me one last time)_. The table was still covered in a skin of ice, and Viktor could see their reflection in it; he told himself he was looking in on a family in another world, warm and happy and full of love. Two out of three isn’t bad.

A delayed reaction – something slipped into place for Viktor. He stumbled back, out of the picture, and opened his face to the one constant in his life, to the one person he knew would always be there, to his justification, his validation, his home. Yurio’s glare softened until it hit the floor. 

“Yuri.” There was a shake to Viktor’s voice that mirrored his hands. “How do you know so much about this?”

“I told him,” Yuuri cut in. His words were clumsy, stumbled things. “Upstairs. I didn’t want it to all be too much for him. He’s only a kid.”

“I’m  _not_ a kid!” Yurio slammed his fist down onto the table, and the ice shattered – slowly at first, fissures spreading through it like cancer, until it fractured off into pieces, pushing away from one another. “I’m a dragon slayer.” 

Viktor dropped back down into his seat. Or, rather, the ground beneath his feet fell away from him, Yuuri caught his back in the gentle curve of his arm, and guided Viktor back to his chair. When Yuuri moved to step away, Viktor found himself clinging to the dragon’s arm; he wasn’t exactly sure why, he wasn’t sure about anything, but he just knew that he had to  _hold on_. And then Yuuri was dropped to a crouch next to him, holding his hands, murmuring pretty things that didn’t fix anything but the soft rub of them soothed reality back into Viktor. He registered Yurio’s offer to make a pot of tea – _I must be in a state –_  and Yuuri’s reply of  _we don’t have any spoons_. Viktor forced himself to shake his head. He didn’t care about tea and he didn’t care about spoons. 

All he cared about, in that moment, was Yurio. Yuri. Yurochka. No matter what name he held up to the light, none of them seemed to quite fit. They tasted like copper on his tongue. The boy sat opposite him at the table was a boy no longer but a soldier. Hard. Cold. A marble statue.

“Vitya?” When Yurio spoke he didn’t sound like himself. No, Viktor thought, he sounded  _exactly_ like himself – like the scared, rain-soaked boy he’d bought in off the streets all of those years ago. He forced himself to nod. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like this.”

Viktor sat himself up properly, making a scaffold out of his arms against the table. Yuuri was stood to the side, so that either Russian was equidistant from him. His eyes – now a smoky sort of brown with bleeds of parma violet in them – traversed from Yurio to Viktor and back again. There was no way to deny that Yurio’s behaviour to the dragon had been overwhelmingly foul during Yuuri’s tenure, yet when Yuuri looked down at the teenager it was with nothing but earnest concern. A petal of love stroked at Viktor’s heart. Even if he couldn’t bring himself to comfort Yurio in that moment, he was glad that someone was.

His eyes caught the Morse code of a graze across Yurio’s cheek, the wound he’d patched up earlier that very evening. Instinct told him to reach out and inspect the wound afresh. The ache in his gut pinned him down.

Nobody said anything. Nothing was said by anyone. Yuuri’s switching of focus between the two Russians sped up, his head turning into a metronome.

“Yurio is very brave,” Yuuri offered after a glacial pause. “He saves lives.”

“I can speak for myself, Jabberwocky.” The sneer in Yurio’s voice, Viktor noted, was half-hearted at best. At worst? It was wet, on edge, inwardly sharp. “Dragons are dangerous. So maybe Yuuri  _doesn’t_ prey on humans. I believe him - he wouldn't still be standing if I didn't. But as far as I know, he’s in a minority of one. You’ve seen what he’s capable of. People on the street don’t stand a chance. That’s where slayers come in. When there’s a dragon in our territory, we track it down and we,” pointedly, Yurio looked away from Yuuri, “slay it.”

Viktor nodded a cluster of times, his face a placid lake glazed in moonlight. So maybe it wasn’t a huge leap to make – from knowing both that dragons existed and that Yurio actively got into fights to knowing that these two facts were directly linked – but it wasn’t disbelief that was bridling Viktor. It wasn’t even the fact that he felt lied to (although that stung in its own way, it was something he could reconcile himself to understand) but it was that Yurio was apparently going out there and actively throwing himself into harm’s way. Simply put, Viktor was afraid. For all he cared, Yurio could turn around and say  _actually I’m an alien from outer space and I’m here to blow up your planet_ – just so long as Yurio stayed safe whilst doing it.

He watched, words backing up in his throat to form a tight blockage, as Yurio looked up at Yuuri, who nodded, just the once.

“There’s a prophecy. An important one.” Yurio swallowed. “You weren’t supposed to find out until you had to, but. I guess now kind of fits that criteria.” He settled into a smirk and Viktor let out a breath. “Not that I think your ego needs it.” Confusion rippled through Viktor, but he nodded anyway because what was one more loop on the rollercoaster this evening was turning into? The teenager made a production out of standing up, of tucking a strand of fairydust blond behind his ear, of clearing his throat. And then:

 

“ _A saviour will be born on a saviour’s day,_

_With hair of silver, platinum, grey,_

_Eyes as blue as his heart is true,_

_A Conqueror to lead the way._

_In the City of The Saint_

_One will fall_

_Who could bring death_

_To us all._

_Ice will fight fire,_

_The Earth will choke on the pyre._

_The Conqueror will save us all.”_

 

There was a swell of quiet in which Viktor found it a struggle to fight the theatrical convention of clapping. Yurio just stood there for a moment, swaying awkwardly, and then threw himself back down into his chair. 

“What does any of that have to do with me?” Viktor tilted his head slightly to the side, an expression of bemusement. 

“Don’t be a moron, Viktor.” Slouching back in his seat, Yurio kicked his legs up onto the table, crossed at the ankles.  _He is still the same person. He is still my boy._  “Don’t you even know what your name means?” When only silence and blank blinking followed, Yurio rolled his eyes so hard that Viktor genuinely feared that the teenager would develop some kind of strain. “It means  _Conqueror._  Your birthday is the 25th December, Christmas day according to the Julian calendar – the day of Christ the  _saviour_.” Still, nothing. “You have  _blue_ eyes and  _grey_ hair.” 

“My hair is  _silver_.” 

Yurio spread his hands in a sort of  _there you go_ gesture. And then Viktor’s (blue) eyes widened like puddles forming in the rain. 

“You. You think that your little nursery rhyme is about  _me_?” 

“It’s a  _prophecy._ And no, I don’t think it’s about you. I  _know_ it’s about you. There’s a load of astrological signs too, apparently. It’s why I’m here. If you’re meant to save the world, someone has to make sure you don’t get taken out before the horsemen come a-knocking.” Yurio shifted in his seat. “When I was tailing you, it was because it was my assignment to keep an eye on you.” 

Ice sliced through Viktor’s core and marched out in all directions. His jaw tightened around itself and, Jesus, he’d never felt so fundamentally  _angry._  Viktor was not a violent person, not by any stretch of the imagination, and he could never understand how anyone could truly want to hurt anyone else – but in that moment, he could. 

“Yurochka.” Viktor’s whisper was damp in the corners. “You were eleven.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You were  _eleven,_ ” he enunciated his words harder, shoving them out of his mouth. He considered switching to Russian but no, the meaning would still taste the same. It only felt fair to keep Yuuri in the loop. “You were a slayer by age eleven?” 

“I made my first kill when I was six. The dragon was a little older. They put a crossbow in my hands and told me it was kill or be killed.” Yurio’s chest puffed out in gilded pride but his eyes, those clear green eyes that Viktor could read like maps, were vacuous. “The Shield – that’s what you call a cell of slayers that control an area – took me in when I was just a baby. Dragons killed my parents.” Viktor shut his eyes because he couldn’t watch Yurio talking about this like his parents were nothing more than numbers on a spreadsheet. It wasn’t  _right_ and Viktor wanted to find these  _Shield_ people and hurt them until they were so broken that they woke up screaming in the middle of the night, or couldn’t trust anyone, or thought that it was  _their_ job to keep the world turning. “I guess I’ve been a slayer since then. I’m the very best at what I do.” 

And then Viktor was on his feet, rushing around the circumference of the table until he got to the boy that had never really been a boy, bundling Yurio up in his arms. Almost immediately, of course, Viktor found himself making contact with the icy linoleum of the kitchen floor because  _don’t be gross old man stop hugging me._  A horrible thought cut into Viktor’s head;  _did anyone ever hug Yurio before me?_  

It occurred to Viktor that he should maybe be hurt by the lies. By the fact that the basis of their relationship was built on a falsehood. But no. He couldn’t ever be mad at Yurio. Not like that. Not for something like this. If anything, it made him love the teenager more because he knew that Yurio needed it. There are no terms and conditions when it comes to family. 

He swallowed because, seriously, now wasn’t a time for high emotion. Viktor forced the lop-sided, cocked-eyebrow smile he usually gave Yurio. 

“So, this prophecy. I guess that makes me like, the Chosen One, right?” Viktor shut his eyes and,  _yes_ , it just felt right. He was made for more – there was no sin in admitting it – and here it was. Dragons and slayers and a prophecy. Better people than him would have gone mad by now but Viktor, who had always thought modesty a false virtue, was taking it (mostly) in his stride. “Do I get a special sword?”

“Yes. You are the ‘Chosen One’.” Yurio folded his arms over his chest and he was, yet again, any other lost teenager. “God help us all.” 

As Viktor moved to stand up, the flash of one of Yurio’s waistcoat buttons got his attention. Curved around the edge was writing, and he stooped in to read it, his mouth working around the words. 

“ _Destiny may ride with us._ ” He straightened. “What does that mean?” 

“It’s the slayers’ motto.” Yurio ran the pad of his thumb over the button. “It’s a quote from Peter the Great, who set up the very first Shield here, in St Petersburg, to protect his shining new city from the vermin menace.” The teenager smiled as though remembering a favourite bedtime story, just enough to make prominent the slither of puppy fat still clinging to his cheeks. 

“You know the rest of that quote, right?” Yuuri’s voice was a welcome break for Viktor, and he turned to look at him. The younger man was smiling softly, laughter in his eyes and it was a look Viktor never wanted to forget. Yurio, on the other hand, scowled. “ _Destiny may ride with us today, but there is no reason for it to interfere with lunch._ ” 

“This Peter guy,” Viktor nodded, “sounds like my kind of man.” 

“He wasn’t a man.” Something about Yuuri’s smile sharpened. To Viktor, it looked like stepping out into the night. “He was a dragon.” 

“Blasphemy!” Yurio kicked at the table. 

“It’s true.” Yuuri shared his grin with Viktor. “He was as much a dragon as I am.” 

“So not much of one then.” At the sharp chill of Yurio’s tone, Viktor’s smile dropped. He shot Yurio a warning look but the only response he got was the teenager tossing his head in a way that shifted his fringe out of his face. All traces of vulnerability were dead and buried. “I wasn’t  _sure_  you were a dragon until tonight. Because you’re  _broken_.” The flick of Yurio’s accent lashed out into the room. Viktor took Yuuri’s hand and it was as cold as a dead man’s. “What kind of dragon is  _frozen_?”

“My kind.” There was no room for argument in Viktor’s declaration. He squeezed Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri squeezed back. It was a conversation. “He’s hot enough without breathing fire.”

There was a stutter as a blush blundered onto Yuuri’s cheeks, shaking his head. Yurio yet again rolled his eyes and faked a gagging sound. Pleased with a job well done, Viktor beamed at both of them. It hit him rather suddenly that this, small and ragtag, was not only his family but also his home. His smile absorbed a whole new dimension. Everything was different, but everything was good.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand about you,” Yurio started once he’d recovered. Yuuri’s face slipped into something serious, and it suited the cut of him. “Dragons evolved out of hoarding centuries ago. Even before they evolved out of flying.” Yuuri nodded and, although Viktor was utterly lost, the dragon seemed to know where this was going because he looked down to where his foot was tracing arches against the floor. Heat chased up Yuuri’s cheeks. “So why the Hell have you been stealing all of our spoons?” 

“I-I most certainly have not been.” Yuuri pressed his palm to his chest in a vague attempt to look scandalised. 

“Don’t lie to me, Jabberwocky. There’s one in your pocket right this second.”

  

* * *

  

“Are you sure this is okay?” 

“I’m sure.”

“Because I get it. Sharing a bed is a big deal.” The concern spelt out in the lines of Viktor’s face melted into a smile.

Yuuri smiled back, a spark behind his eyes because everything was gloriously alight. There were no more secrets. A million boundaries that he had warped himself into no longer existed and, right now, he was breaking through one of them. Viktor’s bed was soft and pillowy, like a giant marshmallow, and it hugged around the juts of Yuuri’s bones, blurring them into a sweet, lulling faintness. On the beside table next to him was his favourite spoon, held together by ice - the rest had been rescued from behind a series of loose bricks in the fireplace and returned to the sanctuary of the cutlery drawer.

They were not touching each other. That was a boundary that had to stay in place, for the first night at least, because although they’d slept in one another’s arms on the couch before, this was different. It was more intimate. It was substantial, final. This, Yuuri knew, was the point of no return. Besides, it had been a while since Yuuri had last hunted, and was thus even colder than normal.

So there Viktor was, mummified in blankets and plastered with hot water bottles, Makkachin curled atop his legs, just so he could spend the night with Yuuri. Touched by this thought, Yuuri leant across and soothed his lips to Viktor’s forehead, petal-soft. Viktor made a bright sort of sound, and Yuuri knew he was precisely where he was meant to be. 

“I’m sure. My place is by your side.” 

“No,” Viktor murmured, “ _our_ place is  _together._ ” 

Yuuri couldn’t help it; he kissed Viktor. Even if he had had a choice in the matter, it wouldn’t have mattered. Their noses touched, frost on a spring flower, and when Yuuri pulled away their lips seemed to cling together for just that little bit longer. There was a pursed suggestion of sound as they peeled apart. 

“Are  _you_  sure?” Yuuri didn’t want to ask because  _what if he says no_ , but he knew he had to. 

“Yuuri.” Viktor’s voice was a purr and it washed over Yuuri in gold. The Russian took Yuuri’s hands, his fingertips spelling prettying things against Yuuri’s skin. “We’re  _meant_ to be together. You heard that prophecy of Yurio’s – what was it? There was something about ice. That’s you. It’s got to be.” 

Yuuri shook his head because no, he was not the sort of person prophecies were written about. He tucked a strand of Viktor’s hair behind the older man’s ear. There wasn’t a clear point at which Yuuri had become comfortable with Viktor being clingy with him; it was even more of a blur when he tried to pinpoint the moment Yuuri himself had started pandering and fawning over Viktor, because he did, and it felt like indulgence. The best things in life usually don’t make sense. 

“The ice is metaphorical, I think.” He laid down on his side, a breath apart from Viktor and his mountain of blankets. “It’s you.  _Ice will fight fire._ The fire means dragons, doesn’t it? And you’re the Chosen One. So you must be the ice. It's in your eyes.” 

There was an easy bridge of silence as Viktor thought this through. Yuuri adored watching Viktor think; the way his face stilled, but the thin paper of his eyelids flickered as stories wrote themselves on them. The way the left corner of his lips would twitch up into his cheek as he  _got it_. 

One day, maybe, Yuuri wouldn’t be able to see such things anymore. So he watched Viktor now, saturating himself in the warm glow of  _home_. 

“Maybe I am the Chosen One,” Viktor said after a while. He kept his eyes shut, half asleep, and Yuuri coiled loosely around the shape of him, arms folded under his chin. He resembled a fairytale dragon guarding its treasure. “But  _I_ choose you.” 

“I love you, Viktor.” 

“I love you too,  _drakonchik._ ” A pause. Viktor opened his eyes from up over his smile, and Yuuri’s concept of blue was redefined. “Little dragon.” 

In the morning, Viktor would be the first to wake up. He would bask for an eternity of moments, stroke his hand through Yuuri’s hair, draw half-moons against Yuuri’s neck and think  _this is what life is supposed to be_. Then he would get up for his first day in this brave new world. He would open the bedroom door and find Yurio slumped there, still in the tight skin of what Viktor now knew to be his slayer gear. Something in Viktor would ache deeply, and would continue aching in the way a burn does even after the heat has been removed. Then, he would scoop up the teenager in his arms like an infant and carry him to bed. It would be a testament to Yurio’s exhaustion that, when his eyes fractured open, he would not protest at being carried but, rather, would let them flutter shut again. And Viktor would start hating dragon slayers all over again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading, and a big hug for everyone who has commented! 
> 
> Things to be said about this chapter:
> 
> 1\. When Yuuri messes up Yurio's hair before they go downstairs, he's trying to imitate Viktor. Cast your mind back, if you will, to chapter one when he saw Viktor ruffling Yurio's hair ('Yuuri watched, head tilted, baffled, as Viktor ruffled a hand semi-roughly through the teenager’s hair. He’d never seen any such behaviour, and it confused him... It looked like how Yuuri imagined warm would feel'). He understands what's about to happen - he's realised that Yurio is a dragon slayer and is now likely about to tell Viktor, in doing so risking everything - and Yuuri wants to comfort Yurio in a familial sort of way, to show human affection the only way he knows how. Similarly, when Viktor tilts his head at hearing the prophecy, it's an expression of confusion that has rubbed off on him from Yuuri.
> 
> 2\. Despite being a dragon, Yuuri still suffers from anxiety. This is why he feels the need to hold a conference about how it's such a bad idea for Viktor to be in love with him - he's offering Viktor an out. He finds it hard to believe that someone like Viktor could ever love him, and so assumes that whatever affection Viktor holds for him is down to the fact that he doesn't know all of the facets of who Yuuri is. But if he loves Viktor, why is he trying to offer him an out? Because he thinks it's the right thing to do, and what does his happiness matter when held against Viktor's? Also, there's the whole not trusting himself thing because (although Yuuri is telling the truth - he eats animals rather than people) some part of him does want to kill Viktor, it's in his blood, and it feels unethical to let Viktor unwittingly put himself in the path of such danger.
> 
> 3\. Why does it take so long for Viktor to twig that Yurio knows so much about dragons? First of all, because he thinks he knows everything about Yurio so of course there can't be some crazy secret going on there. Secondly, he's just found out that The Love of His Life™ is a dragon; even if he is excited by it and taking it well, he's got to be in some shade of shock.
> 
> 4\. When Yuuri lies to Viktor, and tells him that Yurio knows about dragons because Yuuri himself told him, he's doing it to protect Yurio. He sees a lot of himself in the teenager, and he knows what it's like to lose your home and your family - Yuuri desperately doesn't want that to happen to Yurio too.
> 
> 5\. When Yuuri catches Viktor and helps him into a chair, I wanted that to sort of represent the balance forming in their relationship. Viktor's been the one looking after Yuuri (buying him clothes, fussing over him, giving him shelter etc) but here, Yuuri is helping him. Viktor knows all of Yuuri's secrets, and they are equals. 
> 
> 6\. I am a total sucker for pet names. I really am. They are my one weakness. So I was looking up Russian pet names, and I came across an article in The Moscow Times called '10 Pet Names to Call Your Russian Boyfriend' with a name that just screamed to be used in this fic; 'drakonchik'. It translates literally as 'little dragon', and is apparently a bona fide Russian pet name. So Yuuri is now called 'drakonchik'. 
> 
> 7\. I wanted the last paragraph to echo the end of chapter two, when it says how Yurio will find Viktor and Yuuri asleep together on the couch the next morning. Why was Yurio outside their bedroom door? He was listening for trouble, trying to protect Viktor because that's what he does.
> 
>  
> 
> Because I am super lame, I have come up with a mini playlist for each main character. If there's a song you don't think applies right now, think of it as foreshadowing. Here's Yuuri's:
> 
> \- Creep by Radiohead  
> \- Heathens by Twenty One Pilots  
> \- Control by Halsey  
> \- The End of All Things by Panic! At The Disco  
> \- I See Fire by Ed Sheeran  
> \- Light The Night by Andy Burrows 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading - sorry if this chapter was a bit boring, but I hope you enjoyed it! Chapter five probably won't be up until next weekend, because it's a big one and, also, uni is kicking my ass. 
> 
> Next chapter: Yurio tries to teach an old dog new tricks, Viktor gets his hands on a sword, Mila takes shit from no man, and Phichit has a (fire-breathing) surprise for Yuuri.


	5. Own Kind

 

 

It was a bad habit to get into, Viktor knew, lying to your better half. But Viktor saw himself as something of a libertine, and he really couldn’t help it. Besides, it wasn’t a big lie. It was no _oh of course I’m not sleeping with my secretary_ or _well I have no idea where your grandmother’s pearls have gone_ (neither of which had ever graced either Viktor’s lips nor his ears). It wasn’t even as serious, Viktor thought, as _what do you mean the spoons have gone missing oh dear well these things happen I have no idea where they’ve gone_ (a babbled snow flurry of a lie that Viktor had encountered thrice over the past few weeks) _._

No, it wasn’t a big lie. Nor was it a particularly damaging one. But it was frequent and what if multitude constituted severity? But no, Viktor thought, _I am the Chosen One and I work hard every day and I deserve this._  

He was lying right at that moment, and not a single stab of remorse tickled him. It felt too good, like that period of chalky gentleness before a dream. It felt like floating. 

Why? Because Yuuri was _singing._ It sounded like summer rain, soft and gentle and _should I be here is this okay._ When Yuuri sang it was nothing more than a vulnerable curl of a whisper, a silver lining, and it gilded everything in Viktor.  It wasn’t that Yuuri was a particularly good singer – his voice was too watery for that – but rather that he sounded so much like _Yuuri_ , that Viktor couldn’t help but adore it. The songs were always in Japanese, but that didn’t matter; Viktor found he knew their meanings perfectly well, even without being able to understand them. 

The only problem with this was that Yuuri would not sing if he thought someone was listening. So Viktor would traipse in from work, have dinner, curl up on the sofa with Yuuri and, after meandering through comfortable conversation, he would pretend to fall asleep. And then, pulling Viktor’s head into his lap so that he could sonata his fingers through silver hair, Yuuri would sing. 

“Oi, Jabberwocky.” 

It took all of Viktor’s strained wisps of self-control not to sit bolt upright, glare at Yurio and bark out an apocalyptically grouchy _do you mind go to your room._  

“O-oh, Yurio.” Viktor could hear the blush in Yuuri’s voice. His self-control snapped, and he let himself breathe into a smile. Neither of the other two seemed to notice. “Is everything okay? How was practice?” 

“Fine.” 

“That’s good.” There was a pause, and Viktor could tell that Yuuri’s focus was slipping because webs of frostiness started to ripple through the room. He turned his head to the side so that the reach of his nose pressed softly against Yuuri’s stomach. “You think something is going to happen.” It wasn’t a question. 

“No. I _know_ something is going to happen.” 

“The prophecy?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“You know I’d protect him, don’t you?” There was something fierce in Yuuri’s voice, and it glinted against the cavernous dark of Viktor’s eyelids like sparking flint. 

“And you think I wouldn’t?” 

“That’s not what I-”

“Wasn’t it?” 

“No. It wasn’t.” There was an exhale of tension. Viktor breathed in deeply against the fabric of Yuuri’s t-shirt – the one with the cartoon poodle on – and he smelt loosely of a sea breeze, but also like the chilled petrol-and-smoke scent of the city; a contradiction. “What I meant was that I will fight to the death to protect Viktor. That’s all.” 

_That’s all._  

“Okay. Great. So, after we’ve both gotten ourselves killed trying to save his sorry ass, who’s going to look after him then?” 

“You told me before, Viktor is under the Shield’s protection.” 

“What if he can’t get to the Shield? What if they’ve all been turned to ash and dust?”

“ _Yurio_ ,” Yuuri’s voice was an ache. He sounded how Viktor, at that moment in time, felt. “Everything will be fine. Nobody has to die.” 

“I’m too old for fairytales, Jabberwocky.” There was a soft padding as Makkachin plodded over to the teenager. Viktor could hear the ruffle of Yurio’s clothes as the dragon slayer bent to scratch behind her ears. “He needs to be trained.” 

“I. I know.” A sigh heaved from Yuuri, and Viktor could feel it. “But there’s no way he’d ever agree to it. You know how he feels about slayers. It was a miracle that we managed to persuade him to let you continue training. He won’t want to.” 

“I don’t give a flying fuck about what the old man wants.” There was a high, jutting edge to his voice. _Please promise you won’t let the monster take you away from me Vitya I don’t want you to go._ “He needs to know how to defend himself. We can’t leave it until doomsday before we shove a sword in his hand and hope for a miracle. He’s a sitting duck.” Yurio shoved out a sigh that was more of a growl. “He’ll do it if _you_ ask him to.” 

“You think?” Viktor, against the black cinema screen of his eyelids, could picture the tilt of Yuuri’s head. 

“Yes. I’m not going to flatter you. But you know he will. Just do that stupid stray puppy face.” A skip. “Yes. That one.”

“I’m not doing a face.” 

“You are.” A beat. “The Shield don’t know about you.” 

Yuuri’s fingers drew angel feather crop circles in Viktor’s hair. The older Russian knew, right then, that Yurio was right; Yuuri would ask him to train, and Viktor would say yes. But not because of any kind of _look_ (although it certainly wouldn’t hurt their cause), but because he never wanted to hear either of his boys sounding so heavy. Besides, Viktor thought, it would be good to meet these Shield people and give them a piece of his mind. No, not just a piece; the whole goddamn pie.

“I’m your dirty little secret.” There was something playful about Yuuri’s voice, tucked under an edge of steely seriousness. 

“More like my _annoying_ little secret.” Viktor could hear the roll of Yurio’s eyes, just as he could feel the whiskey-warm heartbeat of Yuuri’s half-laugh. Ripples of gold stroked outwards from Viktor’s core; Yurio was being prickly, of course he was, but Viktor could decipher the smattering of genuine affection in it, flecked like blossom in a stream. Yurio had become _attached_ to Yuuri, even if Viktor was the only one who knew it to be true. “You’re safe though. For the moment. I won’t tell.” 

“Thank you.” There was a smudged curve to Yuuri’s tone. 

“Don’t thank me. I’m not doing it for you. As far as I’m concerned, the only _good_ dragon is a dead one.”

 

* * *

 

It didn’t look like the headquarters of a dragon slaying organisation. 

Viktor had pictured something medieval, something made of wood and stone, lit by flaming torches and guarded at the mouth by the merciless teeth of an iron portcullis. What’s more, he hadn’t expected that it would actually _be_ in St Petersburg, but rather somewhere more organically magical – on the forested shores of Lake Lagoda, perhaps, or maybe entombed in some underground lair. 

What he did not expect, however, was to be marching in thick, sweeping strides alongside Yurio right into the heart of St Petersburg. Even less did he expect the St Petersburg Shield of Dragon Slayers to be in a towering crystalline fist of a building that practically blended in with the shade of the granite sky. In short? It was, from the outside, your average office building. A five minute walk to the west and Viktor would be at his own grey, paradigm of a workplace, ready for eight hours of telemarketing.

Adventure, Viktor felt sure, was not supposed to be boring. 

“Is this it?” His voice was a time lapse of a flower wilting. “It looks so… Ordinary.” 

“It has to.” Yurio shrugged, and the wrinkle of the teenager’s nose told Viktor that he had caused some kind of gross offence. “Imagine if we put up a great big sign. _Dragon Slayers Here_. We’d be making an all-you-can-eat spit roast buffet of ourselves. Moron.” 

Having been well and truly told, Viktor kept his underwhelmed thoughts to himself. Instead he opted to focus on the words he would be having with whoever was in charge of this deeply immoral institution; with whoever had thought it was a wise idea to swoop in, snatch an orphaned child, and train him to put himself in danger. Since learning the tempestuous truth of things, looking at Yurio had started to hurt Viktor, deep down in his bones. He couldn’t hear the teenager talk without also hearing a counterpoint of night-time crying, without hearing _I made my first kill when I was six_. They had stolen Yurio away from him and, more to the point, they had stolen Yurio from himself. Children are not built for bleeding. But Yuri Plisetsky had never been a child, and that was something Viktor knew he could never fix. 

The glass of the doors was black and reflective, like the windows of a limo. There were no handles to them, no keyholes. Nothing. They were just void blackness and, vaguely, they reminded Viktor of Yuuri’s eyes when he was angry or upset or lustful or hungry (or all of the above). When they were about a foot away, however, one panel of black slid away to reveal a bright, silvery light. Before Viktor could exclaim his surprise, Yurio was tugging him through the doorway. 

For the second time that day, Viktor found himself paled in a wash of disappointment. The corridor he found himself in was far too clinically sterile to taste of adventure. It was long and reaching, like the wait before bad news, a yellow-brick-road cast in regiments of blindingly white tiles. The ceiling was more lighting panels than plaster. The walls, however, offered some break in monotony; slices of glass were held into place by smooth metal bolts, frosted with clawed lettering. Any inspiration that might have been gleaned from them was bleached by their surroundings. The first one Viktor passed read: _‘At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.’ – Frida Kahlo._ Further down, another one declared: ‘ _Adapt or perish, now as ever, is nature’s inexorable imperative.’ – H. G. Wells._ He stooped in to read it properly, swilling the words around his head. 

“That sounds cheery,” Viktor muttered. 

“ _To conquer the enemy you must first conquer yourself_ , is my personal favourite.” Viktor’s head snapped round at the sound of a gravelly, tire-chain of a voice. All he could do was gawp but, really, should he have been _that_ surprised? After finding out that his boyfriend was a dragon and that his only _real_ family member was a dragon slayer, Viktor had thought that nothing would ever shock him again. “Ah, Viktor. It’s good to see you.” 

Viktor stumbled around to the source of the voice, shaking his head as though trying to shake all thought from it. The lights were too bright. A breathy shot of laughter exhaled from Yurio, the teenager leaning smugly against the opposite wall, arms crossed coolly over his chest. He was wearing what Viktor knew to be his slayer gear, and his face turned moonlike in the dark shroud of his hood. 

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to stare?” 

“Sorry, Mr Feltsman.” Viktor shook his head again and blinked, _hard_. He poked the boulder of a man in the shoulder; lo and behold, he did not evaporate into thin air. Viktor hadn’t gone mad. Not quite yet. “What are you doing here?” 

“ _Yuri,_ ” the elderly man’s voice dropped an octave, like a stone plummeting through water, “I thought you’d explained everything to him.” 

“ _Yakov_ ,” the teenager drawled in a drawn-out, high-pitched mocking sort of tone. He shook his head to free it of his hood, and Viktor was surprised to see that, despite everything, Yurio’s smirk, when truly meant, still appeared the same. “I thought it would be more fun this way.” 

“Viktor.” Yakov turned his attention back to the addressed, who was gawping like a fish out of water. Every time he tried to catch a word and haul it out of his mouth it flickered out on his tongue, like trying to use a lighter in a draught. “This must come as a bit of a surprise, I know.” 

“I. I thought you were just some boring old man.” Okay, so maybe not the smoothest thing to say, but at least he had said _something_. 

“He _is_ just some boring old man,” Yurio cut in. Yakov gave him a sharp slice of a look, and Yurio pulled his hood back up. Muttering something about _announcing the arrival of the Chosen Fucking One_ , the teenager skulked off. 

“Mr Feltsman, I didn’t -” 

“Yakov. Please just call me Yakov. Mr Feltsman is my PR name.” The older man sighed. Viktor watched as the lights drew fluid shapes against his bare scalp. It occurred to Viktor that, without his usual hat on, Yakov somewhat resembled an egg. _Do bald guys polish their heads?_ “You know me as the head of Feltsman Telemarketing. That company does not exist.” 

“Yes it does,” Viktor pointed out dumbly. His teeth felt loose in his mouth. “I’ve worked there for the past four and a half years.” 

“Yes. Four and a half years. Four and a half years ago, Viktor, you took a scared, lonely boy in off of the streets. The next day you got an email about a job at a new telemarketing firm getting ready to open a small branch in St Petersburg.” Viktor’s features shrank in on themselves until they were pinpricks and then, he burst into a bright, cheek-splitting smile because _I’m a superhero and this is my origin story._ Nothing had ever been as ordinary as it had seemed. “That little punk put us in quite the tight spot. He wasn’t supposed to go home with you. It was tantamount to desertion. Nobody ever bloody listens to me.” 

The smile firebombed from Viktor’s face. He was not talking to his boss. He was talking, in all probability, to the man responsible for the theft of Yurio’s childhood. For the hard bite of steel ever-present in the teenager’s eyes. For the nightmares that had plagued Yurio as a younger teen and, Viktor strongly suspected, still did – it was just that Yurio had learnt how to stop screaming. 

This was a man who made children bleed. 

Viktor wasn’t a superhero, and this was not an origin story in the pages of some technicolour fantasy. This was real life, and Viktor felt the burning rage of a parent fracturing and expanding in his chest like a universe. He pulled himself up by the shoulders, his neck extending, his nose cutting into the air. For all intents and purposes he looked every inch The Chosen One that someone like Yakov Feltsman might expect; a being carved of ice and steel, without mercy. 

“He was eleven.” His voice was as cool as winter moonlight. At his sides, his thumbs were running over the sharp points of his fingertips. “He was a child.”

“He was a soldier,” Yakov grunted. 

“He was a _little boy._ ” Viktor shook his head, the walls of his throat constricting. “He told me he made his first kill when he was _six_. You stole his childhood.” 

“We gave him the best life we could.” Yakov waved a dismissive hand, but there was something metaphysically _old_ in his eyes and Viktor, for the sake of his own sanity if nothing else, read it as _I know I’m sorry I didn’t want to_ _he deserved better._ “There’s something you need to understand, Viktor, before we can go any further. We all have roles preselected for us. Time is a map, and each of us are a road or a boundary or a contour line. We are all a part of the bigger picture that Fate has planned for us. Take Yuri, for example. He was always meant to belong to the Shield. Fate marked him as our rightful property.” 

“Fuck fate. He doesn’t belong to _anyone_.” Viktor was mildly surprised to find that his voice was a wet sort of growl, the fuse of a firework fizzled to a halt by the rain; he had wanted to roar it. He wet his lip. The glare of the lights was becoming dizzying. 

“Do you know how many people would have died if he wasn’t with us?” 

Silence exploded in waves of fire. Viktor wanted to say something like _I don’t care_ because, well, what did anyone else matter compared to Yurio, to the boy he’d raised and clothed and fed at times when he couldn’t feed himself? Yurio was _home_. Yurio was the ground Viktor walked on (Yuuri was rapidly forming the sky), and he was _precious._ When Viktor thought of himself in terms of Yurio he often thought _brother_ or _guardian,_ or sometimes even _parent,_ but never before had he thought _father._ In that moment, however, he did. It was frightening. 

He said nothing. Because _I don’t care_ was too childish. Furthermore, how _could_ he say that he didn’t care about people dying? He did care, of course he did, because all Viktor ever wanted was to help people, but what he meant was that he didn’t care about it in relation to Yurio. His hands crunched into fists at his sides, and he hungered for a trickle of ice to run down his spine. Yuuri would know what to say. Or maybe he wouldn’t, but having him there would certainly have made Viktor feel stronger, or would have at the very least improved the scenery. 

“At the Shield, we specialise in reading the map that Fate has laid out for us. I understand that you know what your role in this is.” 

“Chosen One,” Viktor muttered. His mind slipped to a faraway place. “The Conqueror.” 

“And that’s a role you’re happy to accept, just as Yuri accepted his?” 

Viktor nodded because, really, _not_ accepting it had never even crossed his mind. He hadn’t even thought that it was a viable option. If it had been, he thought, he still wouldn’t have taken it. There was stardust in his bones and it was made for better things. As a child, Viktor’s favourite game had been playing heroes, using sticks for swords. He was meant for saving people. A thrill of electricity mapped across his skin in a bluster of pre-thunderstorm static. 

“Then come with me. There are some people I’d like you to meet.” 

It was infuriating, just how slowly Yakov was walking, but Viktor did nothing to voice his dissent (other than sink his face into a pout) because he was fairly sure that it was some kind of test. As they walked down the corridor, a thin white spine void of doors, Viktor read a few more of the glass panels. They faded into a blur of strategic points long since irrelevant and the idea of _glory may never die_ and a muddle of various metaphors that were just regurgitations of _fire and wings and blood._ To Viktor, it felt very much like being back in school, heading to the principal’s office. 

As with the outside doors, a panel in the wall slid away at their approach. Viktor tilted his head slightly, jutted an eyebrow because _really?_ It was an elevator. An ordinary, everyday elevator. A dull tomb of metal and lights and, as with all elevators universally, a dull smell of coppery piss. Viktor wrinkled his nose. 

Yakov pressed one of three buttons backlit by miniature haloes of light, and the lift plummeted so hard, so fast, that Viktor felt his stomach knock against his ribs. He stumbled, grabbing for the silver railing that lined the cell. There was a rumble of a chuckle from Yakov who had his feet firmly rooted in the floor. The look on his face read _you might be The Chosen One but you’ve still got a lot to learn_. Which, Viktor thought, was probably true – but that didn’t stop him from itching to dive in headfirst. 

The elevator was cut off mid-sentence, and the force of the stop vaulted Viktor forwards. The doors did not open. 

“You’re about to meet our elite team.” Yakov spoke like the _Once Upon a Time_ of a storybook. “Yuri Plisetsky, you already know. But the other two - ” 

“Your _elite team_ only has three members? And one of them’s a fifteen-year-old?” Viktor blinked. 

“Yes.” Yakov’s eyes drew in around themselves, his mouth set into a concrete line. All moisture evaporated from Viktor’s mouth. “We have a high turnover.” Viktor just nodded; there was no room for argument. Yakov cleared his throat. “The group of people that you’re about to meet are the deadliest in Russia; possibly, in the _world._ Between them they have killed over three-hundred dragons and in doing so have saved innumerable innocent lives. They have given themselves completely to the art of dragon slaying. They are truly dedicated to the craft. You would be wise to remember this.” 

Yakov pressed his palm to the wall, and it slid open. 

The sight that met Viktor was a cavernous, cathedral of a room. The concrete floor was a sprawling grey, heliocentric to a crown of writing in a darker shade of charcoal proclaiming _Destiny May Ride With Us_. The walls were the same blinding white of the upstairs corridor, lined with racks of weapons, some of which Viktor could name in the most basic ways ( _bow and arrow, broadsword, spear, crossbow_ ) but the rest looked like impossible things. His chest expanded to accommodate the beating of his heart. _This is where I’m supposed to be_. 

Three people, as Yakov had promised, were currently making use of the room. In the corner was a tall shadow of a man cast in Gothic relief, his black hair styled into a stiff sort of arrow. He had a phone pressed to his ear and Viktor could make out the words _I love you Anya please_. He looked very much to be the type to stay up all night listening to Hawthorne Heights and writing emo poetry about leafless trees and grey skies and bleeding hearts. Somehow, he had even managed to sucker the colour out of his all-black training outfit. 

A flame of a girl burnt in the centre of the room. Her body was a bowstring; tall and thin, sure and powerful, beautiful and deadly. She had one hand on her hip, the other gesticulating as she rapidly poured her words onto the glaring stab of a boy in front of her – Yurio. 

“I am _not_ short.” 

“Yes you are!” Her voice was a song and Viktor found himself smiling along with her because, maybe, Yurio hadn’t been so lonely after all. He felt a warm rush of affection for the girl, and decided that his goal for the day was to befriend her. “You are _adorable_!” She reached out to ruffle his hair, but Yurio burnt backwards with a screech of _hands off hag_.

“That’s enough!” Yakov’s voice ricocheted around the room in thunderous booms. The three dragon slayers dropped their faces around to him, flowers to the sun. “This is Viktor Nikiforov. You all know that name. He will be training with us from now on. Treat him like you treat one another.” 

The girl rushed forwards and clasped her hands around one of Viktor’s, shaking it hard enough to rattle his bones. Her face, framed by loose waves of earthy red, was aglow with an excited, welcoming smile. Viktor sprinted to catch up with the whiplash, and then he smiled back. _They love me already._  

“I’m Mila. Mila Babicheva.” Viktor felt bad for not knowing the name, for Mila had said it with such a firework of pride that he thought he should have. “I am the first female slayer in Russia. They told me I couldn’t, so I showed them I could.” She stepped back and gestured to the black-haired man. “That ray of sunshine is Georgi Popovich. He’s in a constant state of crisis. It’s best to just let him get on with it.” Georgi raised his head by the chin, and Viktor felt like he was being sized up; he threw his brightest beam in return. “And you already know Yuri.” 

“Thank you, Mila,” Yakov drawled. He waved a hand and the slayers dispersed; Yurio stretched against the wall, Georgi resumed the low whine of his telephone conversation, and Mila plucked up a weapon from one of the racks that resembled a huge, curved double-headed axe stuck to the end of an arm-tall metal pole. She twirled it around her like a baton. “Go on then, Chosen One,” there was a teasing clip to Yakov’s tone that marked his approval as mandatory. “Pick out a weapon. _And he will greet the sword like an old friend._ So it is said.” 

Other people, perhaps, would have seen this as a challenge. Viktor, however, felt like a starving child let loose in a sweetshop. _Finally,_ he thought, _the adventure begins._  

 

* * *

 

“So I know today is Viktor’s first day at the Shield, and I know you’re freaking out about it, so I’ve got you a surprise.” 

Yuuri tilted his head at Phichit, but instead of the usual ‘stray puppy dog look’, he just appeared to be a blank canvas of perpetual shellshock. For the past three nights sleep had run away from him, turning to smoke every time he managed to wrap his arms around it. Viktor hadn’t said as such, but he was too cold to spend the night with – he could tell by the way the human buttoned his lip with the harsh bite of his teeth every time Yuuri got close in order to stop them chattering – so Yuuri had voluntarily relegated himself back to the sofa. Just last evening he’d sneezed and a spear of ice had projected from his fingertip at the shock of it, narrowly missing Yurio’s head. He just couldn’t _focus._ Everything was slippery. Whenever he looked at Viktor his heart shed its skin into something beautiful, but now it was becoming painful. 

_Just today,_ Yuuri told himself, _I just have to get through today and then everything can go back to how it was and I’ll be able to share a bed with Viktor again._ It surprised him, in the most magical of ways, just how much he missed sleeping with his head on the same pillow as Viktor’s, not touching but close enough to be felt. Yuuri had always been a firm believer in the rigid concept of personal space, but not anymore. Not when it came to Viktor. When their worlds collided new universes were born, and he wanted to explore every last star. 

But, because of today, he could lose all of that. _What if the slayers brainwash him?_ But no, it wouldn’t be _brainwashing,_ would it? It would be making him see things clearly. A more sensible dragon would have made his escape by now, but not Yuuri; he had nowhere else to go, and a dragon without a pack is as good as a dragon without a heartbeat. Besides, he loved Viktor enough to let the older man kill him. He knew that if,  _when_ , the time came, he would not put up a fight. 

“Yuuri.” The soft pull of Phichit’s voice guided Yuuri from his thoughts. He blinked, and the blur of his surroundings solidified; he was on Phichit’s doorstep, and it smelt of rain but it wasn’t raining. “Come on. Come in.” 

Direction was precisely what Yuuri need, and he followed it. Phichit shut the door behind him, his hand gloving gently around the definition of Yuuri’s shoulder blade. All of a sudden, the dragon felt very much like crying. Emotion bubbled thick in his gut because Viktor was on the other side of town being trained to kill him and he felt sort of sick and he just wanted Viktor to hug him in that way he did when it had been a _long_ day and here was Phichit’s patchwork living room, a steady constant, and here was Phichit being his steady, constant self and it just wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough anymore unless it was Viktor. 

“When was the last time you ate?” Phichit sounded sort of like his mother, and Yuuri found it even harder not to cry. “Come on, sit down. There you go. Now. When was the last time you ate?” Yuuri let the silence speak for itself, a red rash of shame creeping up his neck. He was fastened up in his leather gear – Phichit had told him to come in it – and he looked down at himself; he’d had to borrow one of Yurio’s belts. “ _Yuuri_. You promised me you were looking after yourself.” 

“I. I know.” Yuuri shut his eyes against the throb of hurt. “I’m sorry. It’s just, hard to hunt in St Petersburg. I’m used to more rural settings.” When he opened his eyes again, it was to see that Phichit was crouched in front of him, his face an ache of _let me help you_. “I’m okay though, Phichit. Really, I am. Viktor takes good care of me. And so does Yurio, in his odd little way.” 

This was the right thing to say; Phichit brightened, his lips stretching just enough to reveal the pearls of his teeth. It was a selfish thought, he knew, but Yuuri often found himself wishing that Phichit was a dragon. But no, the younger man was too soft for that, and his softness was part of the reason that Yuuri loved him so dearly. Phichit only ever deserved to be smiling. 

“Anyway.” Phichit sprung to his feet. “Your surprise. Wait here for just a moment.” 

Yuuri frowned his confusion but did nothing to stop Phichit from blustering off upstairs. He had long ago learnt not to question his best friend – usually, Phichit was doing the precisely right thing (and if he wasn’t, he was at least doing it with the very best of intentions). Phichit could read smoke and stars and find stories in them. 

It was warm in Phichit’s living room, the heat itching at Yuuri’s skin. He traced his finger along the lines of his palm, paths of watery ice mapping out his future. Mindlessly, he’d done the same thing to Viktor a few days ago; they’d been holding hands at the kitchen table whilst the human ate, and Yuuri had started swirling patterns against Viktor’s palm. Upon seeing the ice filigree, Viktor had absolutely lit up and sighed something like _you really are a Disney Princess you are so wonderful you know that don’t you_. Yuuri didn’t, but when Viktor looked at him like that, he could maybe believe it.

There was a bang upstairs, stumbling from _two_ sets of feet, and Yuuri jumped up. Frost bled through his veins because _oh fuck what if they’ve found us what if they’ve hurt Phichit._ If Yuuri would die for Viktor, then he would kill for Phichit. 

He shot up the stairs in a blur of sin black and death white, his second set of teeth slicing up through his gums. He paused outside Phichit’s bedroom door to gauge the situation. 

“Spit him out. Spit him out _right now_.” Yuuri exhaled his relief; it was Phichit, and he sounded distinctly _alive._ There was a soft _poof_ of a sound, followed by a rodential squeal. “Thank you. Honestly. I swear to God, you dragons are going to be the death of me. I’m going to get it tattooed on my forehead: _Hamsters aren’t food_. Poor Sir Squeak. Look at him. He’s terrified.” There was a sigh. “I know you’re out there Yuuri, come on in. See, look, you’ve ruined the surprise now too.” 

Because, honestly, stranger things by far had happened in Phichit’s house, Yuuri opened the bedroom door. 

There, stood in the far-left corner of the somewhat cluttered room, as far as physically possible from the hamster cage, was a somewhat sheepish looking teenager. A teenager wrapped in black leather, a slightly lighter version of Yuuri’s own gear, his trousers flopping over the top of his boots to hide the buckles, his hands sans gloves. His hair flustered in jagged ruffles in shades of saturated sand, broken up by a lick of red. 

“Yuuri!” His voice sounded like a scribble. There was a tinkling _smash_ as a set of sunset wings popped out. They weren’t as big as Yuuri’s – hinging from the teen’s shoulders by a single bone, they were each barely an arm’s length wide, and were as tall, maybe, as a small stack of books. They were bordered in crescent cut-outs. He looked over each shoulder at Phichit’s windowsill; where once had stood a citadel of snow globes was now only a wasteland. Glass punctuated the carpet. “Oops! Sorry, Phichit, I can’t help it, my wings have a mind of their own!” 

“Minami.” Yuuri breathed out the name and it tasted like a teaspoon of salt. Black bled into his eyes, just as Minami’s gleamed a sweet honey-gold colour. “What are you doing here?” 

“I followed you! Well, I tracked you first. And then I followed you.” Minami clapped his hands together with an excited little giggle, and Yuuri winced. “I’d follow _you_ anywhere, Yuuri. I’ve even given up hunting, just like you!” 

Oddly, Yuuri found himself feeling rather touched by the teenager’s blind devotion; if nothing else, it meant that he was making some kind of difference. He glanced at Phichit, questioning, and his friend nodded. 

“Well, that. That’s great. Good job.” He scraped together a serious sort of smile for the teenager. Minami was a friend, he supposed – they had been a part of the same pack – but it was hard to be at ease around the sunset-winged dragon when Minami looked up at Yuuri as though he were stargazing. Yuuri couldn’t let himself trip up around Minami, every word he spoke was gospel. He carved his face into marble. “But you shouldn’t be here. It isn’t safe to stray from the pack.” 

Minami’s wings concertinaed back into the slits of his t-shirt, to fold up into the humps of his shoulder blades. The warm brown of his irises fizzled into a translucent shade of stretched honey. It was hard work, but Yuuri held onto the stern cut of his face; it wouldn’t do to encourage recklessness. Something deep in the thread of his veins told him to rush forwards, to hug onto Minami as a little piece of _home_ , but he didn’t; home wasn’t a place anymore, it was a feeling. Breathes of frost axeled from fingertip to fingertip. 

A caustic, acrid tendril of a smell scratched up Yuuri’s nostrils. His heart didn’t stop so much as vanish. _Fire._ His eyes, billowing black, spotlighted around the room until he caught it; a spark was eating into the corner of one of Phichit’s bedroom curtains, and more were bouncing off of Minami like static, forming a cape of fireflies. Phichit’s head swung around from where he was fawning over his traumatised hamster – Yuuri noticed, with a glimmer of affection, that Phichit took in the tears beading Minami’s eyes before he noticed the rather immediate fire hazard. 

Maybe it was wrong, but Yuuri’s lips curled into a smile. All his life, Yuuri had been called a curse. Sometimes, Viktor called him a miracle. In this moment, he knew, he was about to prove Viktor right.

He breathed in through his mouth like a black hole, feeling the spongy stretch of his lungs fill him up. And then, he blew lightly outwards into the room, frost razor-blading up his throat, his exhale so cold that it manifested in a glacial bloom of bluish white. Minami’s tears froze on his cheeks, and the sparks leaping from him extinguished, lights going out in a plagued village. The licks of fire tasting the curtain died of sudden, unexpected causes – like the click of a finger. Veins of ice splintered outwards from where Yuuri was stood, making cobwebs against the floor. 

“Go home, Minami.” Yuuri was not a cruel person but, sometimes, he had to be. It was in his nature, if not in his heart. “You don’t belong here.” 

“Yuuri,” Phichit’s voice was as quiet as a tap on a shoulder. “Come on. He didn’t mean to. You know adolescents have trouble keeping their fire in check.” He cleared his throat, and at the jolt of rough-soft sound colour plumed back into Yuuri’s eyes. Minami was stood in the corner, pressed against the wall so as to avoid any possible contact with the singed curtain, eyes on the ground. “He’s come all this way just to see you.” 

“He didn’t have to.” And okay, so maybe that didn’t come out exactly how Yuuri had intended it to (which had been in the softest of ways, rather than the sharp sleet it had come out as), but he couldn’t help it. This was _too much_. He flicked his eyes to Minami, who was already back to looking at him as though the sun shone solely to illuminate Yuuri. His skin prickled uncomfortably against the force of the gaze. “I’m sorry,” he etched his voice into something gentle. 

“B-but, but Phichit said you needed a hunting partner.” 

Yuuri flashed his attention back to Phichit, who was doing his brightest sunflower smile at his best friend. Yuuri pulled the colour out of his eyes until they were starless voids, just to let Phichit know precisely what he thought about that. 

“Did he?” The leather of Yuuri’s jacket sighed as he crossed his arms. 

“Yes,” Phichit said brightly, “I did. Because you do. You said so yourself, how hard it is to hunt in St Petersburg. So now you’ve got yourself a hunting partner, and you can go a little further afield.” It was a sound plan, Yuuri thought, and one that was wholly appealing to his vacuous, caving-in-on-itself stomach. Still, though, he opened his mouth to protest – only to be cut off by the full-stop wave of Phichit’s hand. “Katsuki Yuuri, either you go hunting with Minami, who has very kindly come _all the way out here_ , or I will be having _words_ with Viktor. I promised your mother that I’d look after you.” 

And because the idea of a Phichit-Viktor double threat was really _that_ terrifying – he could only imagine the combined weight of all of their pouting and disappointed looks and flurried affection – Yuuri nodded. 

Which was precisely how, a cluster of minutes later, Yuuri found himself skidding to a stop in a blur of green, Minami a half-breath behind him. Even with his enhanced hearing, the bubbling buzz of St Petersburg was nothing more than a red shift daydream. He was not sure where they were exactly, just that it was a forest paved with moss and pine needles. There was no sky above them; just an open treasure chest of jade and emerald and tourmaline. The sun kissed the thick thread of blanketing green and it glimmered. Yuuri couldn’t help but think of the way Yurio looked at Viktor when he thought himself to be unobserved. 

Everything smelt fresh. Cobwebs were fringed with pregnant droplets of crystalline dew. Several streams pumped through the forest, pulsating through to the beating heart of a nearby river; if Yuuri were to drink from those streams, he knew, he would be drinking from the soul of the Earth. To the trained eye, the lush, living carpet was awash with tracks. At a quick glance Yuuri could recognise the calling cards of deer, foxes, rabbits, pheasants, wild boar. He shut his eyes and he could feel the exhalation of the ground as it spun beneath his feet. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. As simple as that, wings unfurled. A shiver of delight raked its fingers down his back – there was no sweeter feeling than having sunlight gilding the stiff joints of his wings. It was freedom. He made a note to bring Viktor there. The whispers of forget-me-nots would bring out the Russian's eyes.

Yuuri dropped to a crouch, painting his fingertips in the dirt. If he shut his eyes he could breathe himself out of singular existence and melt into the roots of the trees. 

“So.” Minami dropped himself weightily down next to Yuuri, shattering his sense of oneness. “What do we do now?” 

“I thought you said you’d given up hunting humans.” 

“I have.” 

“Then how _have_ you been eating?” 

“If I stay still long enough, animals come to me. I just have to talk to them.” The teenager grinned, black-eyed, his mouth disjointed with the mosh of teeth in it. 

Yuuri nodded like a teacher accepting _the dog ate my homework._ He didn’t doubt that Minami was, relatively speaking, clean – Phichit wouldn’t have let him in his house otherwise. He also didn’t doubt Minami’s story as to how he hunted; but Yuuri knew there was more than one way to skin a cat. He cocked an eyebrow, his wings stretching right to their tips. It wasn’t often that Yuuri got to feel confident, but in that moment he did. Because this was his domain. 

“There’s a wild boar near here.” Springing to his feet, he breathed in deeply, letting the scent hug onto him. “This way.” 

“How can you tell?” Minami trotted along behind him, a little too close for comfort, his void eyes glittering as they licked over Yuuri. “You’re wonderful.” 

“I can tell because I’ve been doing this all my life. My parents raised me on it. You can smell humans out, right?” Minami nodded. “And you can smell the electricity before a storm?” Another nod, quicker this time, impatient. Yuuri kept his eyes stuck forwards, his shoulders arched, prowling. “It’s like that. Only the smells are different for each animal. You just have to learn them.” 

Minami opened his mouth, a squeak of a sound forming, but Yuuri whipped his finger to his lips. Everything dropped into silence, only a nearby stream murmuring its dissent at the intruders. 

There, in the clearing before them, was a great boulder of a beast. Its pelt was thick and shaggy, the same colour as the coffee Yuuri made for Viktor and Yurio every morning. Its eyes were two glinting beetles, currently at rest. The boar’s snout was rooting into the ground, its snuffle-snorts stoppered by dirt. Two great, yellowed tusk-teeth glinted. Yuuri could smell the mud and sweat of it from that distance, the heady scent of its blood swirling to him in phosphorescent plumes. He licked his lips. The universe narrowed itself down to Yuuri and the boar and the space between them. 

He coiled himself up like a spring, and in a blur of instinct he was on the boar, its fat stub of a neck twisting in his arms. There was the solid scream of a _crack_ , its spine splintering off into different lines of poetry, and maybe it was bad manners not to offer Minami the first bite seeing as he was the guest, but Yuuri had never felt so fundamentally _hungry._ The beast’s fur was scratchy-soft against his face as he sunk his teeth in. 

When he came up for air, his face was more blood than skin. Ice shot through his veins. He hated himself for thinking it, but the feeling of the kill was not too dissimilar to the feeling of kissing Viktor and then that voice in his head that wasn’t him but was more himself than he was whispered _you could kill him too you know you could it would be so easy he’d just snap like nothing and his blood would taste so good dribbling down your throat it’s what you’re built for you know it is he would taste so good._

“Yuuri?” Minami was stood over him, blinking softly. Yuuri tensed his hands in clumps of the boar’s fur and there was ragged sort of ripping sound. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” He swallowed; it tasted of fire. “Help yourself.” 

Without waiting for a reply, Yuuri ducked his head back down and tore a fresh wound into the boar’s belly.

By the time they got back to Phichit’s, both boys were saturated in blood; their faces, their hands, clotting through their hair. Yuuri caught his reflection in his best friend’s bathroom mirror. His first thought was _I’m fucking disgusting I’m a monster what would Viktor think._ His second was _this is who I’m meant to be._ He sat in the bath long enough for a skin of ice to form on the water. 

Downstairs, Minami had started a fire in Phichit’s small, underused grate, nodding dutifully as the human wittered something about signs and messages and how mercurial the stars could be. As soon as Yuuri slithered through the door, dressed in a bright yellow t-shirt of Phichit’s that smelt of cookie dough and a pair of jeans that was soaked in the scent of hamsters, Phichit rushed off to the kitchen with a garble of _must get dinner on the go I’ll leave you to your dragon business._  

Minami was curled up in front of the fire, his head tucked over the loose nest of his crossed arms. He had used Phichit’s bathroom before Yuuri, but being a creature of heat his hair had dried almost the second he’d doused it in water. The teenager looked over his shoulder at Yuuri. 

“You’re not going to come home, are you?” 

“No, Minami. I’m not.” Speaking felt like forcing gravel up his throat. A deep ache pressed itself against his chest, oozing out of the gaps between his ribs. “I can’t. I. I was expelled. You know that.” 

“But, but, we could make them see. It’s not your fault, you don’t mean to be so cold, I know you don’t. You’re not a bad dragon. You’re just _different._ ” At the high whine of desperation in the younger dragon’s voice, Yuuri felt a sudden tug of affection. “Please, come home.” 

It was not a fast movement, stepping over to Minami. It was a gentle whisper of a glide. Yuuri’s hand hovered for just a moment before it sank into the thick swoops of the teenager’s hair, his fingers forming spider-legs as he raked gently through it. _It’s what Viktor would do if it were Yurio._  

Red spilt over the younger dragon’s cheeks and Yuuri unpicked his hand, keeping his face hard because if he didn’t then, well, everything would crumble. 

“I _am_ home, Kenjirou.” Yuuri shut his eyes and thought of Viktor. Sweet, kind, _good_ Viktor. But not only Viktor; Yurio too, with his fierce protectiveness and torn edges. Then there was Makkachin, who was taking the role of Yuuri’s personal teddy bear _very_ seriously indeed. Phichit, of course, went without saying. “I’m where I’m supposed to be. I. I’m in _love_.” 

He hadn’t meant to say that last sentence. It was too much, opening himself too wide, putting Viktor in danger because Minami wouldn’t tell the pack, of course he wouldn’t, but _what if he did_. It had come out fiercely, though, because that was precisely how Yuuri loved Viktor; fiercely and flamelike and wholly. 

“You’re in love with a human.” Minami sat himself up properly, his nose scrunched up into a snout. “A _human_.”

“Yes.” Yuuri’s voice was a knife edge. “I am.” 

Phichit poked his head around the door and chirped, “he is. And they are _perfect_ together. Too good for this world. Too pure. Instagram loves them.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor knew something was wrong from the moment he stepped through the door, boiling over with stories about his first training session at the Shield. On his walk home, alongside a decidedly grouchy Yurio (Viktor took one look at him and knew that this current shade of grumpiness was down to exhaustion – the teenager had been pushing himself too hard all day), Viktor had plotted precisely how he was going to regale Yuuri with tales of his Grand Adventure (Part I). The bulk of his fairytale centred around his new favourite toy – a type of long, lethally sharp Russian sabre called a _shashka._ It fitted as snuggly in his hand as Yuuri’s did, and when he swiped it through the air it whispered stories to him. Okay, so maybe he’d nearly taken Georgi’s eye out with it, and had accidentally given Mila a free haircut, but it felt _right._ He and his _shashka_ would save lives. 

But back to the point. Viktor knew something was wrong because of how cold it was in the house. The downstairs windows were frosted over from the inside, and his breath crystallised in vapour before his eyes. He paused in the doorway and Yurio shoved past him, his mouth a thin, tight line of rage. But the teenager didn’t say anything, didn’t even roll his eyes, and for that Viktor was grateful. 

The trek upstairs gnawed at his already burning muscles, but the pain barely registered because _Yuuri is hurting and I love him and I don’t want him to ever be hurting._  

It was obvious where Yuuri was – Viktor’s bedroom. The handle was smothered in a thick, spikey glove of ice. As much as Viktor ached to just burst in and rush straight to his boyfriend's side, he didn’t. Because he knew Yuuri well enough by now to understand that, sometimes, all the dragon needed was space and quiet and time to think. And Viktor respected that. Whatever Yuuri needed, Viktor would see that he had it. So he knocked on the door, just once. 

“ _Drakonchik_? It’s just me. Do you need anything?” A pause. “Can I come in?”

There was a soft pitter-patter and then the bedroom door sighed open, Makkachin looking up at him from the other side. Crystals of frost clung to her corkscrews, her eyes wide and dark and earnest. Viktor reached down to rub behind her ears, only for the poodle to grab hold of his sleeve with her teeth, not quite biting, and tug him over to the bed. She shuttled the point of her nose between Viktor and the shadowy flop of a man sprawled out on the bed. _Fix him._ Viktor nodded his understanding because, yes, now was not the time for puppy-cuddles.

He eased himself onto the edge of the bed, making just enough noise to reassure Yuuri that he wasn’t alone. The main source of this noise was the unavoidable chattering of his teeth, but the raking discomfort was nothing compared to how looking at Yuuri, in that moment, felt. The dragon was sprawled on the bed like he’d been thrown there, like he was piece of unwanted detritus. His face was jammed into the pillow and, almost immediately, Viktor could tell why; Yuuri was crying, and against the soft gag of the pillow – the one on Viktor’s side of the bed – the sound was nothing more than a snuffle, a suggestion. If Yurio had come in, for example, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed the wet stutter of a sound. But Viktor did. And what did being the Chosen One matter if he couldn’t make his boyfriend happy? 

“ _Drakonchik_.” He sighed, his hand hovering over Yuuri’s shoulder because, well, he wasn’t sure if touching Yuuri was the right thing to do. He never could be sure when it came to people crying. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?” 

Just as it seemed that Yuuri wouldn’t reply, he turned his head to the side and Viktor felt his heart expand uncomfortably in his chest as it tried to reach out to the dragon. Yuuri’s lips were weighed down at the corners, the slight curve reminding Viktor of his _shashka_. His eyes were a thin sort of colour, watery, nothing. Viktor’s thumb traced a half-moon against the arctic skin stretched over Yuuri’s cheekbone, dislodging a constellation of frozen tears. Yuuri didn’t purr at the contact, as he usually did when Viktor touched him, but he didn’t hiss either. 

Makkachin reached up onto the bedside table, wrapping her mouth around something. Viktor watched as she dropped it onto the bed next to Yuuri; a spoon, held together by a vice of ice. 

“Sorry.” Yuuri sat himself up, wiping at his face. Ice retreated from the glass of the window. “Just. Long day.” He shook his head. “Sorry. It was your big day. How was it?” 

“It was great! I’m learning how to use this sword called a _shashka_ and there’s this girl called Mila who I think I could be pretty good friends with, I’m still not too sure about Georgi – he’s in a constant state of crisis. Oh! And you’ll never guess who I saw there-” Viktor cut himself off. He threaded his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders and the younger man melted against him, head to his chest, and Viktor got the distinct impression that he was _listening._ When he had Yuuri in his arms everything slotted into place; the grey washed from the world and everything was pastel, soft, going nowhere fast. It was an adventure all its own. “I missed you, though.” 

“You did?” The halo of hopelessness in Yuuri’s voice dug deep into Viktor’s belly. 

“Of course I did.”

And then, to illuminate any shade of doubt that Yuuri was probably harbouring, Viktor kissed him.

  

* * *

 

Viktor had been given a _very serious_ job. Or, rather, he’d given himself a _very serious_ job. But still; a _very serious_ job is a _very serious_ job. The Shield was a secret organisation, and what kind of secret organisation doesn’t have a system of codenames? And thus he’d trusted himself with the job of assigning such titles to the elite team. 

He’d been a part of their world for just over a month, but he had yet to see any kind of action. That made sense though – you don’t throw your secret weapon into a battle before there is a war. Secretly, Viktor was glad; although he was itching to get out there, to save lives, feel _adventure_ carving a map through his veins, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to _kill._ Because the thing he would be killing would be a dragon and Yuuri was a dragon and how could he kill anyone – any _thing -_ even remotely related to the Love Of His Life? 

Surveying the training hall, he rolled the codenames he’d come up with over his mind. In his hands he held a reporter’s notebook, a page dedicated to each member of the elite team (plus Yakov and Yuuri). The first page was headed with _MILA_ , because she was the sort of spark that demanded to burn first. He had dug through twelve different names and crossed out eleven of them in thick black ink, settling on Codename No. 5; _Trailblazer._ Watching her flip and wheel and spring across the floor in a fluid flame of movement, the sweeping bob of her hair carving a written warning into the air, Viktor knew that he’d made the right choice. 

Coming up with a codename for Georgi had been hard, keeping Viktor up at night as he picked through his mind. The issue was that he just didn’t _know_ Georgi like he knew Mila; the man had no apparent interest in Viktor, answering any questions with shrugs or monosyllabic grunts. When Yakov was tutoring Viktor with his _shashka_ , Viktor would often be scathingly aware of Georgi watching them, slashing through the air with his own blade. Just the day before, Viktor had tried to give Georgi some advice about balance, only for the younger man to stomp off to the elevator. Currently, Georgi was skulking at the edge of training hall, testing the weights of various crossbow bolts. _Skulking_ was what Georgi did best, and that was what had given him his codename: _Shadow._  

Yurio’s codename had been the easiest for him to conjure up. Of course, with the Shield only knowing him as Yuri, Viktor could have simply gone with _Yurio_ or _Yurochka_ , but where was the fun in that? No. Yurio’s codename, as per Viktor’s system, was _Kitten._ An old, affectionate nickname from when the teenager had first trailed into Viktor’s life, following the older man around like a shadow. Like a hungry kitten. He didn’t look like a kitten though, not in that moment. Yurio’s weapon of choice was an antiquarian fairytale of a thing called an _urumi._ It had the handle of a more conventional sword, but from the hilt it split into five lithe razor-blade whips. They slashed around Yurio like silver fire. With his _urumi_ gripped loose-tight in his hand, like it were the bow of a violin, Yurio ceased to be a child. He was an artist painting masterpieces of war and blood into the air. In his other hand, Yurio gripped a long, thin dagger Viktor knew to be called a _misericorde_ – he twirled it in his hand like an afterthought. Parents probably shouldn’t aspire for their children to be killing machines, and Viktor viciously did not, but the relaxed smile that touched Yurio’s face when he had a blade in his hand was something that Viktor wanted to see more of. 

Viktor flicked to the next page of his notebook, which was headed _YAKOV_. This codename had been almost as easy as Yurio's: _Dumbledore._ It reflected all of his roles - teacher; protector; and manipulator of orphaned children. 

For himself, Viktor was torn between two: _St George_ or _Beowulf._  He was finding himself more drawn towards the latter – it sounded more rugged, more adventurous. He would have to ask Yuuri which one he thought sounded better. 

He had already started work on a list of various codenames for Yuuri. The shortlist was all of various apex predators, narrowed down to: _Honey Badger, Black Mamba,_ and _Orca._ Sliding a pen out of his pocket, he scribbled out _Orca;_ naming one’s boyfriend after a killer whale was probably not the wisest of moves.

  

* * *

 

Viktor cut an impressive shape in his cramped, second-hand living room, and Yuuri was content to drink him in. The older Russian had just got back from practice, too excited to waste time with shucking off his trench coat and it swirled theatrically around his legs. Yurio was slouched in an armchair, his face buried in the slanting bridge of his hands.

Gripped tightly in Viktor’s right hand was his beloved _shashka_. Yuuri was not expert in terms of weaponry, but he would recognise this blade anywhere, just from listening to Viktor philosophise over it at great length night after night into the early hours. He didn’t mind listening to Viktor’s endless torrent of enthusiasm for the blade – it was what the older man was passionate about, and thus Yuuri wanted to soak up every second that Viktor spoke about his _shashka_ ; the way his eyes sparkled like sunshine on the sea, the way he smiled so broadly that his mouth curved into a heart shape just to accommodate it. In short, the sabre made Viktor happy and thus, by osmosis, it made Yuuri happy too. 

Today was the first day that Yakov had let Viktor take his _shashka_ home and so there he was, swooshing it about the living room in great, sweeping arcs. He overshot and wound up spinning a dizzy 360. 

“It’s for slashing,” he demonstrated, and Makkachin bolted out of the way just in time, “and thrusting.” 

The phone in the kitchen cried out and Viktor bustled out to it, gabbling something like _oh that’ll be Mila she promised she’d call._ As he rushed out he threw his sword down. Three sets of eyes – emerald, amethyst and onyx – watched the blade somersault through the air before landing tip-down in the carpet like an exclamation point. 

“I wash my hands of this madness,” Yurio drawled. Yuuri watched the teenager swan out of the room, Makkachin – who seemed to agree with the sentiment – at his heels. 

Yuuri, however, was still gazing intently at the sharp glint of the _shashka’s_ handle and it whispered to him. A thread of silver was flowing from it, across the distance, and into Yuuri, singing through his veins. His hands suddenly felt far too empty. 

He wasn’t sure why or how or to what end, but he sprung to his feet and hugged his hand around the ornate hilt. If kissing Viktor felt like electricity, then this was ocean waves. Hard and strong and flowing and natural. Fierce. Burning. The curl of his fingers tightened around the ambiently cool metal of the handle and it felt like a kiss. Webs of ice crept from his fingertips, fastening the sword to his skin. 

The tip eased out of the carpet in a slip of a movement. Because he knew – he had no idea how, just that he _knew_ – it was what he had to do, he gave the sword an experimental thrust forwards, the vaguely curved edge forming a cool smirk. Of its own accord, his knee hinged forwards and his arm extended, swanlike. 

He pinned his gaze to a cushion on the sofa – a frilly, tea-stained thing that nobody would miss. Black smoke breathed into his eyes and down through his arteries.

Breathe in. Breathe out. The hunt. The kill.

He thrust forwards, letting his instrument guide him, and there was a stiff _rip_ as it punctured his target. 

The _shashka_ cluttered to the floor. Yuuri raked his hands on his jeans, shaking his head hard enough to make him dizzy. 

A few breathes away, Yurio was perched at the top of the stairs. His eyes were wide enough to burst. There was one thought on the teenager’s mind; _and he will greet the sword like an old friend._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have split this chapter in two, but oh well - I promise the next chapter won't be so long! Thank you for reading it, and I hope it was okay!
> 
>  
> 
> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. The Yuuri-Yurio relationship. Yuuri desperately wants to be friends with Yurio because, as I've said before, he sees a lot of himself in Yurio in an abstract sort of way - I think they are both pretty anxious individuals, they just let it manifest in different ways. He also respects Yurio as a slayer, but at the same time he has this pack instinct to protect him because he's so young. Yurio, on the other hand, desperately doesn't want to be friends with Yuuri, but he sort of can't help it because a) nobody other than Viktor has ever instinctively cared about him so much and b) he's never seen anyone make Viktor so happy before, and one of Yurio's big wants is for Viktor to be happy.
> 
> 2\. So where the Hell did Yurio live before Viktor took him in? I have no plans to cover this in the fic, but I imagine he had a sort of boarding school deal with the Shield. 
> 
> 3\. I know the scene in the Shield (and pretty much this entire chapter tbh) is a car crash, so if there's something I haven't made clear or something that you're just curious about, please feel free to ask - I'd love to witter away about it to you! 
> 
> 4\. 'Phichit could read smoke and stars and find stories in them.' This, it may shock you to know, is not one of my many poncy, pretentious and totally awful metaphors. Phichit's role will be expanded on in later chapters, but let's just say that he is inextricably linked with Viktor's prophecy. Also, I just want to point out how fearless Phichit is; he's in a small, enclosed space with two extremely deadly, very hungry predators and he's happy to argue with both of them.
> 
> 5\. With the hunting scene, I really wanted to show just how dangerous Yuuri is. He's been very careful with Viktor, constantly worried that he'll hurt him, and whilst part of that worry is down to his own anxiety, it is also because, deep down, in some primal way he does want to kill Viktor, and he knows that he very easily could. He's desperate to protect Viktor, but at the same time he's the very thing that Viktor needs protecting from. I'm very conscious of the fact that I've _Twilight_ ed dragons, and here I wanted to put some of the viciousness back into them. Rest assured, there will be somewhat less friendly dragons cropping up later on.
> 
> 6\. With Viktor and his sword, I have tried to do some unreliable narrating. He's a walking disaster with the shashka, but nobody really has the heart to tell him, and that's why when he decides to give himself the job of appointing codenames, none of the others do anything to stop him - at least it's keeping him out of their hair. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks again for reading this behemoth of a chapter, and I hope you enjoyed it! I will try my absolute hardest to post a chapter before the weekend, but seeing as I'm going on a jolly up to Stoke-On-Trent from Saturday to Tuesday to see my small tribe of baby siblings, there probably won't be another chapter up until Tuesday. To make up for it, here's the name of the next dragon we will be meeting: Otabek Altin. 
> 
>  
> 
> A mini playlist for Viktor:
> 
> \- Ordinary World by Green Day  
> \- Strange Love by Halsey  
> \- Biblical by Biffy Clyro  
> \- The Reckless and The Brave by All Time Low  
> \- I Got Style by Fort Hope  
> \- Lips Like Morphine by Kill Hannah
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter: Viktor buys many spoons, Yuuri learns a new word, Yurio might not be sweet but he is sixteen, and it turns out that dragons don't mix all too well with alcohol (AKA, Viktor has fluffy adventures with his dragon before shit hits the fan).
> 
> My tumblr can be found [here.](http://unicornsandbandsandstuff.tumblr.com/) Come say hi!


	6. Viktor and His Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I promised that this chapter wouldn't be as long, which turned out to be a total lie - sorry! But yes. I'm not sure if I like how it turned out, but I had a lot of fun writing it so I hope you guys have fun reading it :)

 

Spring was creaking its fingers through the door in breaths of pearlescent iris and apricot rose and sunshine daffodil. Viktor found that he no longer needed a scarf when he headed out, although it would be a few more months until he’d be able to consider rolling up the sleeves of his trench coat. Even with Yuuri glued to his side in virtual perpetuity, Viktor still felt the cold in harsh bites and stinging scratches; only, now when he felt the whip of a breeze whisper down his neck, he associated it with _want_ and _love_ and _holy fuck being cold should not turn me on_. Wherever he walked in St Petersburg, even with spring gilding her fingertip along the horizon, the cold followed him. A constant reminder of just how lucky he was. Every shiver birthed a smile. Because to be cold was to be touching some part of Yuuri, and Viktor never wanted to not be touching him. 

Every weekday morning when he strode through the respiratory system of the city on his way to the Shield, Yurio stalking along beside him, a tug of icy air would wrap around his throat or a snowflake would kiss his forehead, and Viktor would think of the sweet dragon boy he had waiting for him at home.

Slayer training was writing fresh stories across Viktor’s skin, reworking the origami folds of his body into something sleeker, more defined. Viktor had never been one to struggle with body image – he had always believed modesty to be a false virtue and pride a false sin – but even he had to admit, _holy shit,_ he’d reached a whole other plain of hotness. Just the other day he’d been strutting along the upstairs landing, traversing the short space between the bathroom and his (and Yuuri’s) bedroom wearing nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, when Yuuri, who had been innocently minding his own business plodding up the stairs, had looked up from the floor to see Viktor stood there. At the sight, maps of ice had clawed sharply on the floor around Yuuri. And then, just because he could, Viktor had thrown him a wink. Long story short, Yuuri’s wings had popped right out, smashing a nearby window and now a rule of No Partial Nudity was strictly enforced in the Nikiforov-Plisetsky-Katsuki household, which Viktor felt to be grossly unfair. He couldn’t help being beautiful. 

The above (and totally unjust) rule of No Partial Nudity was the reason for Viktor’s current mission. It was a Saturday, and he was walking through St Petersburg as sure as a bullet, heading straight for his usual thrift shop – the one in which he had kitted out Yuuri’s wardrobe. He needed clothes that would hug his figure more tightly, show off the new knots and ridges that training had given him. In short, he needed clothes in which he could seduce Yuuri _without_ breaking the rule of No Partial Nudity. Even if he did think the rule unjust, his house was a democracy and he’d been outvoted two to one. 

Stepping into that daydream of a shop felt like a hug. It was a part of his old, grey life – but it had been a part the glinted like quartz in the right light. It was a transient place, in between Here and There, Past and Present, Worthless and Precious. Everything held within that tight fist of a concrete building was the same – the musty smell, the sunspots of mould, the bell above the door that had long ago stopped ringing, the way things were arranged by colour alone – but it felt fundamentally different. For Viktor, it had once been a place of adventure. Now, it was a cavern of warm nostalgia.

He stopped for a moment after stepping through the door, breathing it in. And then, something happened. Behind the antiquarian oak desk of a counter, the owner was raking a hand through a dilapidated shoebox full of _something._  

“Honestly. This isn’t a _junk shop_ ,” the owner lamented. His face was a worn, droopy thing. When he heaved his hazel eyes from the box, Viktor made a point of smiling at him – they weren’t friends, per se, but there was enough familiarity there for them to not be strangers. Besides, Viktor was _curious._ “What the Hell am _I_ supposed to do with a boxful of _spoons_? The things people dump on me.” 

“Spoons?” Viktor blinked, his cheeks pushing up with the force of his smile. Now it all made sense; Fate had put the rule of No Partial Nudity in place so that Viktor would be right there at that exact moment. 

The man nodded and held the box out for Viktor to inspect. Hemmed in by the flimsy walls of the shoebox was a veritable _blizzard_ of spoons; tarnished faux-silver teaspoons that resembled charred bones, a coffee spoon the size of Viktor’s little finger, sundae spoons that were long and lithe and playful, tablespoons embellished with bright enamel seaside scenes at the end of their handles,  and a tiny little melon baller with a grotty yellow plastic handle (Viktor wasn’t sure if a melon baller counted as a spoon, but he thought that the deep, spherical shape of it was aesthetically amusing, if nothing else). 

Viktor let out a high-pitched bark of a laugh and the owner of the shop stepped back, eyeing him warily. It was a testament as to how much Yuuri had changed Viktor – no, not changed him, but rather changed his world view. Where once he would have seen a box of tarnished, grimy junk he now saw a treasure chest. 

“How much do you want for them?” He was already reaching out to take the box lest it get snatched away from him. The shop owner, too shocked by this strange silver-haired man’s burning passion for second-hand utensils, let him take it. The weight of his prize felt comforting to Viktor, almost as good as having Yuuri in his arms. Because he wasn’t just holding a shoebox of old spoons; he was holding the adorable, scrunched-up smile of a certain ice dragon. “Well? They _are_ for sale, right?” 

“I. I was just gonna throw them out.” The man scratched his cheek and then shook his head. “Sure. Sure they’re for sale. Does 1,500 rubles sound fair?” 

“Great! That’s great.” Keeping the shoebox firmly tucked under his arm, Viktor pulled his wallet out of his trench coat pocket and flicked out three 500 ruble notes. “Thank you. My boyfriend is going to _love_ these.” 

And with that, Viktor bustled out of the shop, the wide eyes of the utterly bemused owner trailing behind him. The chilled-petrol scent of St Petersburg swirled in the frosty air like a finger beckoning Viktor home. So he ran, he sprinted, he dodged and darted through the streets, his slayer training coming into its own. Not because it would make his journey any faster but rather just because he could, Viktor ran down an alley and vaulted the mesh fence at the end of it. Not a single spoon was dropped. His heartbeat kept in time with the thunderfall of his feet – he was seconds away from making Yuuri smile, and what more did he need than that? 

He cluttered through the front door, his hair a stardust ruffle and his face alight with his smile. The house smelt of coffee – extra strong, just the way he and Yurio liked it, and just the way Yuuri made it for them (the dragon seemed to be fascinated by the process of using the cafetiere, enchanted by each of the little steps). Everything appeared to be in order, by which Viktor meant that his little slice of St Petersburg had not been blanketed in ice and snow. Against the coat rack, amongst a fistful of umbrellas, was Viktor’s _shashka_ , locked up safely in its hardened leather scabbard. He smiled at it like a parent. 

Before Viktor could announce his arrival, the sound of hard-soft speech drifted in from the living room.

“Yes. Click there. No. _There_ , moron.” Pressing his ear to the crack of the door, Viktor could hear an intrinsically _Yurio_ sigh billow out. His smile melted down into something gentler, aching, sweet. “Right. So this is Google. You can use it to search for things. Anything. People, places, music. So. What do you want to search for, Jabberwocky? What interests you?” 

Vitkor’s own interest hit a sharp peak as a mountain of silence scaled between himself and the other side of the door. Through the crack he could just about make out the slight tilt to the back of Yuuri’s head, and his heart swelled like lungs on a deep inhale. 

“Viktor.” Yuuri’s voice was small but earnest, thick with sincerity, and Viktor had to button his lower lip shut with his teeth to stop himself from squealing.

“No, that’s not what I.” A grunt. “Do you know what? Fine. We’ll do Viktor. Right. So type in _Viktor Nikiforov._ Fucking Hell, can’t you type any quicker?” Despite the razor edge to Yurio’s voice, Viktor felt affection wrap its warm hands around his heart, tinting everything in pink. Because this was as close to kindness as Viktor had ever seen Yurio get with someone who wasn’t either himself or Makkachin. 

Peeking through the crack in the door, Viktor could see that they were sat together on the sofa, Yurio’s laptop balanced on one of each of their knees, almost close enough to be touching; on Yuuri it looked like contentment, on Yurio it looked like trust, and altogether it painted a picture for Viktor of _this is all I want for them._ In that moment he would have traded his Great Destiny, being the Chosen One, his _shashka,_ every little scrap of adventure – if only it would mean that his family could be _happy_. They were happy, Viktor had thought, but seeing his two boys right in that moment, more at peace than he’d ever seen either of them together before, he realised that they _weren’t_. Or, rather, they weren’t happy in the ways that Viktor wanted them to be.

Makkachin’s head popped up over the back of the sofa and Viktor knew he’d been spotted. He tried to hold a finger to his lips in silent appeal, but he lost his balance where he was crouched at the crack in the door and tumbled straight through it, spoons scattering everywhere. 

Several things happened at once. Yuuri hissed and arched his back at the sudden noise, only to soften into a bright blush at the almost instantaneous realisation that it was Viktor. Yurio jet-propelled himself to the far end of the sofa, slamming the lid of his laptop shut. Makkachin bounded over to her fallen master, pressing her nose worriedly against his cheek. 

Viktor ran one hand through his hair and the other through Makkachin’s as he popped himself onto his knees, reclaiming his spoons. He could feel three sets of eyes pinned on him – Yuuri’s in adorable, head-tilting confusion, Yurio’s in a fiercely scowling flame, Makkachin’s in a _oooo this looks exciting can I help_ kind of way – and he smirked to himself. 

“That was very nice of you, Yurio,” he began, his voice drawn out and indulgent, “helping Yuuri with the computer.” 

“I was _not.”_ Yurio’s voice was all but a shriek.

“Yes you were,” Yuuri said and it sounded like feathers. “You were showing me the _In-ter-net_.” 

“No, I wasn’t.” Yurio threw his head up into the air, his nose cutting a sharp line. Viktor sat back on his knees, counting his bounty. Satisfied that he had lost no spoons, he took the time to raise an eyebrow at the younger Russian. “Why would _I_ want to help the stupid fucking Jabberwocky?” Viktor’s expression dropped into something sharper because, okay, Yurio was prickly and he understood that (and he was sure Yuuri did too) but the teenager was walking a fine line – and _nobody_ got to hurt the feelings of the Chosen One’s boyfriend. Yurio caught the look and rolled his eyes in return, but Viktor knew from the slight wince of pink at the side of his cheeks that the message had gone in. “I just got bored of him asking me dumb questions all the time. So now he can Google them instead. Anyway, why have _you_ got a box of old spoons?” 

Viktor jumped to his feet, his arms cradling the shoebox as though it were a new born. Yuuri’s eyes were no longer on him – he could practically _feel_ the absence – but were glued to the box. They were a beautiful prism of colour; a ginger sepia breathed to life by plumes of pressed-flower purple. Viktor stuttered over a breath. 

When Yuuri flicked up his eyes to meet Viktor’s they bled into a darker shade and, as cliché as it sounds, Viktor went weak at the knees. So weak, in fact, that his arms jerked to accommodate the flicker of movement, only serving to dislodge the shoebox. 

It should have fallen to the floor. But it didn’t. Because before Viktor could even register that Yuuri was no longer sat down, the dragon was in front of him, the shoebox caught safely in his arms. They were close enough that the tips of their noses kissed. Yuuri looked up at Viktor through the thick halo of his eyelashes and _Jesus Christ,_ Viktor thought, _he knows exactly what he’s doing._ A needle of frost drew down his spine. 

“They, um.” Viktor cleared his throat but didn’t step back. His heart felt too big for his chest and it burnt in the most delicious of ways. “They’re for you.”

“Th-they are?” Yuuri stepped back so he could better take in Viktor’s gift. Petals of ice were blooming around the edges of the box and, to Viktor, they looked like art. “Are you sure?” 

“Of course they’re for you, moron,” Yurio spat from the corner. “Who else would want them?” He turned his face to Viktor, his mouth an unamused line. “You know, Vitya, a normal person would buy their partner flowers.” 

“Well,” Viktor puffed his chest out, “I’m not a normal person.”

“You can say that again.” He nodded at Yuuri, who was now face-first in the shoebox, breathing it in. “You really shouldn’t encourage his hoarding. We need to housetrain him.”

Viktor shot Yurio a special kind of Look and the teenage slumped off, muttering something about not wanting to watch Viktor and the Jabberwocky moon over each other anyway. Makkachin trotted up the stairs after him, but not before licking Viktor’s hand on her way past. It felt like a _well done I raised you right_. 

There was a soft crease of a creak as Yuuri sat down on the sofa, his treasure chest in his lap. He held up the melon baller as though it were a rose. Viktor pulled his phone out and snapped a photo for Instagram – social media had become as smitten with Yuuri as Viktor himself had, and who was he to deny the public what they wanted?

“Are these all really for me?” Viktor nodded and slipped his phone back in his pocket. “They’re _beautiful._ ”

“Well,” Viktor started, a grin pulling at his face. He sat down next to Yuuri and a firework of delight exploded in his chest as the younger man shifted instinctively closer. When Viktor laced an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, the dragon leant into the half-embrace. Two pieces slotting together, the waves and the shore. “You’re beautiful. You only deserve beautiful things.”

Yuuri shook his head but didn’t say anything and that was okay – sometimes things don’t need to be said.

What he did do, however, was draw a line of ice along Viktor’s jaw with his fingertip, teasing the older man’s face into a dipped decline. Yuuri leant in, and Viktor met him halfway. Viktor bought his palm up to cup the soft round of Yuuri’s face, to hold it like a precious thing, only to pull away upon feeling the bubbled sleet of fresh tears burning against his skin. 

“Hey, hey, _Drakonchik,_ what’s wrong?” Yuuri looked away and it hurt in the back of Viktor’s throat. “What is it? What did I do?” 

“Nothing, Viktor. You haven’t done anything. You. You’re _perfect._ ” 

“Then why are you-”

“Because I’m happy. _You_ make me happy.” 

And that, in turn, made Viktor happy. No. Not just happy. Like he was a hero.

  

* * *

 

“Yurio?” 

“What.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Yurio clapped shut his laptop and gave the Jabberwocky a pitch-black glare because _can’t I have five fucking minutes of peace._ If he wasn’t stopping Viktor from impaling Makkachin on his _shashka_ then he was scraping ice off of the windows or rescuing their good spoons from Yuuri’s ever-expanding hoard in the bottom of Viktor’s wardrobe. And did anyone ever thank him for any of it? Of course they didn’t. Between eating face and having Deep And Meaningful Conversations, the other two didn’t have any time to even _look_ at Yurio, let alone thank him for anything. Ever. A little voice in the back of his head whispered _but seeing Viktor smile like that is thank you enough_ but he was always quick to stamp that thought out. 

A plume of ice exhaled through Yuuri’s nostrils and, somehow, Yurio dug up an even darker glare for him. 

“No.” He tossed his head to the side, nose up, his fringe forming a curtain. “You can’t.”

“Oh.” The temperature dropped a few degrees. Yuuri’s face dropped as though a weight were tied to the end of his chin, and Yurio noticed the colour leech from his eyes into a smoky quartz that reminded him of a half-empty glass of water left languishing for too long. “Okay.” 

“Stop pulling that face.” 

“What face?” 

“You know exactly what fucking face.” Yurio threw his legs onto the sofa, screwing himself up into a meteorite of grouchiness. “Go on then.” 

“Pardon?”

“Ask your question.” 

Yuuri fidgeted on the spot for a moment, sparks of ice dancing from one fingertip to the other. _Show off._ At least, Yurio thought, if they’d had the good fortune of stumbling upon a fire-breathing dragon, a _proper_ dragon, they would have been warm. They could have been strutting around the house in Hawaiian shirts, sipping piña coladas out of coconuts and growing palm trees in pots. But no. Of all the thousands of dragons out there, Viktor had to get attached to the _one_ ice-breathing bastard. Yurio tried – and somehow succeeded – to convey all of this in one solitary scowl.

He kept his eyes pinned on the dragon as Yuuri sat himself down, keying his fingertips against his knees. Why did he always have to look so damn vulnerable? No, not just vulnerable – like he was constantly under attack. Maybe Yurio could _sort of_ understand how that might be endearing to some people (Viktor, for example, with his hero complex was a sucker for anyone who needed ‘saving’) but to Yurio it was just plain annoying. _Pathetic._  

“Spit it out then.” 

“I’ve noticed, that when you talk to Viktor you sometimes call him _Vitya_.” Yuuri blinked, tilting his head into that stupid stray-puppy look and Yurio damned himself for feeling its effect seep over him in whispers. His shoulders sunk down around him. “What does it mean?” 

“It’s a nickname, moron.” He blew a tuft of hair out of his face, sitting himself up properly. At Yuuri’s blank stare he heaved his eyes into a drawled roll. “When you like someone but you can’t be bothered to say their name you make it shorter. Or not even shorter, just different. To show that you like them, I guess. Like my name isn’t Yurio, it’s Yuri – Yurio’s my nickname.” 

“So…” Yuuri gnawed on his lip. When he lit up, the metaphorical lightbulb popping into his head, Yurio struggled not to smile with him. “It’s like when you call me _Jabberwocky_?”

“Yes.” A slice of a pause. “ _No_. I call you _Jabberwocky_ because I _don’t_ like you, Jabberwocky.” Yurio sighed – he didn’t like thinking about this sort of thing too deeply. “I call Viktor _Vitya_ because it saves time.” 

“But it’s an affectionate thing?” 

Yurio threw a shrug at him. 

“Perfect!” Yuuri clapped his hands together. “I’ll start calling him _Vitya_ too.” 

A sickled claw plunged itself deep into Yurio’s chest, puncturing and dragging and burning because _no_. _He_ called Viktor _Vitya_ and it meant _family._ Yurio had lost so much of Viktor over the past few months and this, this felt like grief afresh. But no. He was Yuri Fucking Plisetsky and he was _not_ about to get emotional about a stupid nickname. His throat felt too tight and his eyes had gone too dry. He closed them. 

When he opened them again, a constellation of breaths later, it was to be met with a pair of honest amethystine irises, swollen to a lunar size, brimming with some kind of grand emotion. _Worry_ , Yurio thought and it felt like a knife, _he’s worried about me._  

“What?” His voice was a shot of a sound. 

“I don’t have to call him that, Yuri. It’s okay if you don’t want me to.” 

With Yuuri looking at him like that, like he’d do anything to make Yurio happy, and his mind annoyingly plunging back to every time Viktor had ever hugged him or cleaned up his wounds or ruffled his hair, Yurio found that, really, he wanted nothing _more_ than for Yuuri to call Viktor _Vitya._ It meant family. 

So he shook his head and muttered, “call him what you want.” 

“Thank you, Yurio.” Yuuri put a hugged sort of emphasis on _Yurio_ , on the nickname, and Yurio felt oddly touched by it. He turned his face to the side, his nose pointing away from Yuuri because looking at him made the walls of Yurio’s muscles ache. “I mean it. I. I know you do, so _much_ for us. You keep secrets that no child – that no _man_ should have to. I know Viktor thinks he’s the one looking after all of us, but he’s not – you are. And that’s not fair but you do it anyway and you’re so _strong._ So. So thank you, Yurio.”

“Whatever, Jabberwocky. Save all that sappy stuff for Vitya.”  

Silence padded between them, and that was okay. It was a comfortable kind of silence, if a slightly awkward one. After a minute or two, Yurio plucked up the remote and flicked on the television, jumping through the channels until he landed on a kids’ cartoon – just basic enough for Yuuri to be able to follow the general flow of the saccharine Russian words. 

“You’re pretty good with the _shashka_ , by the way,” Yurio said after a while. Face forwards on the television screen, he heard Yuuri splutter and he smirked to himself. He’d been saving this up for the right moment – Viktor’s dramatic flair had quite clearly rubbed off on him. “I see you, when you think nobody’s around.” 

“I. I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Yes, you do. If the Chosen One was half the swordsman you are, we might actually all stand a chance.” 

“Viktor’s _wonderful_.” And it was vomit-inducing, how obviously and deeply Yuuri meant it.

“Maybe he is. But not with the _shashka_.” 

“He told me he’s hitting targets now.” 

“Yes. Fifty percent of the time.” Yurio preened a hand through his hair. “I’m getting you a sword.” 

“What? No. _No_. This, it’s. It’s Viktor’s thing.” 

“So? It can be your thing too. It can be a couple’s thing. He’d probably get off on it.” Yurio shuddered and tried to bleach that thought from his mind; thinking of Viktor getting off on _anything_ was disturbing enough without throwing dragons and traditional Russian sabres into the mix. He gritted his teeth. “I won’t tell if you don’t. You have a talent. It’d be a damn shame to waste it.” 

When Yuuri didn’t say anything, Yurio knew it was because he was right.

 

* * *

 

It was an unmitigated disaster. No, _carnage_ was the word for it – preceded by _total fucking._ Yes, Yurio thought, _total fucking carnage._  

Everything was stained a charred black and to breathe was to choke. Even throwing the windows open to their widest reach did nothing to disperse the clawing, claustrophobic air. Something stodgy was constellating on the ceiling in thick globules; the musty beige colour of the substance was enough to make Yurio’s stomach turn. Stepping forwards, something crunched and crackled underfoot. He looked down to see a paper-thin fragment of shell, a smudge of sunny yolk still clinging to it. 

_Total fucking carnage._   

And there, right at the centre of it, _of course,_ was the Jabberwocky. To be fair to him, it wasn’t _just_ Yuuri – there was Viktor too, and the pair of them were stood in front of the round wooden slab of the kitchen table, grinning like the couple of idiots they were. 

“I’ve only been gone for _two hours._ ” Needing to let the tension out in a burst of kinetic energy, Yurio raked the whip of his hand through his hair. It was damp to the touch and he repressed a shudder; usually, after a Saturday morning run, he’d jump straight in the shower. “If you think I’m cleaning this shit up-” 

“Of course not!” Viktor’s voice was a flower of a sound and _oh, oh no._ “It’s your birthday, Yurochka, you don’t have to do _anything_ today!”

“Happy birthday, Yurio,” Yuuri put in, his voice a bright gleam on the edge of a blade of nervousness and _good_ , Yurio thought, because it meant that his death-stare was working. 

But no, this wasn’t Yuuri’s fault which, if nothing else, made a refreshing change. This was all on Viktor’s head because he _knew_ and Yuuri didn’t and it wasn’t _fair._ Yurio did not _do_ birthdays. He never had done. Before Viktor had found him, back when he’d been living in the cold sterility of the Shield, birthdays had been an unnecessary frivolity not afforded to him. It was something he’d never had, and something he sure as shit didn’t _need_ now. Birthdays were a family thing and Yurio didn’t have a family. Not really. He shut his eyes against the sting and turned it into a grimace. 

Yurio felt into his pocket, hugging his fingers around his _misericorde_ and it felt like handholding. His eyes caught Yuuri mirroring him, and the teenager snatched his hand back down to his side, empty. 

“You know how I feel about my birthday, Viktor.” He coiled his arms over his chest, and it looked suspiciously like he was hugging himself. “You didn’t have to make all this fucking mess.” 

“Ah, but Yurio, it’s your sweet sixteen! And we,” Viktor gestured at himself and Yuuri; Yurio screwed his face up in disgust because they were a _we_ now, a single entity. “We made you a cake. We’ve got you the _best_ present. I know I said that last year, but I _really_ mean it. Yuuri helped me pick it out.” 

“Let me guess. It’s a fucking caviar spoon.” Yurio sneered and it was a sharp slice of a thing, a dart shooting straight for Yuuri because _it’s his fault everything is his fault he ruins everything they’re not my family._ “Or did you push the boat out and get me a spork? Oh! Do you know what I would _really_ like?” The pause was punctuated by Viktor tucking Yuuri’s hand in his; a match dropped into a pool of gasoline. “A fucking coat because it’s always fucking freezing in here. God, I wish _it_ had never come.” 

“Yuri,” Viktor’s voice was soft but Yurio read it as a warning. 

“ _Khuy tebe!”_ _Go fuck yourself._ “I don’t want,” suddenly Yurio found himself suckering his breaths in, sleepless nights tightening their myriad shadowy hands around his throat, “any of this.” 

Viktor stepped forwards, revealing the contents of the table behind him; a shrivelled, singed doorstop coated in a thin layer of ice (Yurio assumed this to be the aforementioned cake), and a large, cuboid shape bundled up in stupid, childish wrapping paper (blue with red balloons on it). Makkachin was cowering under the table, a sparkly pink party hat strapped to her head at a jaunty angle. The rage evaporated from Yurio, leaving him with nothing. _Empty._ And he just couldn’t fucking _breathe_. 

When Viktor stepped forwards again, the sound of movement was a maelstrom. Yurio wasn’t _scared –_ not of anything and certainly not of Viktor – but something about it was intrinsically invasive, _too loud I can’t think everything’s pressing in on me and it hurts why can't they just leave me the fuck alone._ His ribs crawled along one another, pulling in like a clasp. He was too small and the world was just too big. 

“Vitya,” Yuuri’s voice was a low hiss as he reached out to pull back on Viktor’s arm. Blue eyes swivelled to meet bark brown. “He’s having a panic attack.” 

“No I’m _fucking not_!” The sound was a screech, but it was a wet one; a howl of wind through the voluminous tendrils of a thunder storm. 

Why were they looking at him like that? He wished they would stop. Viktor with his eyes squinted like he couldn’t quite see, his face sinking around his mouth. Yuuri, the fucking Jabberwocky of all people, looking at him with _pity._

Yurio shut his eyes, screwing them up until he saw stars and, for a moment, he could breathe. He didn’t peel his eyelids back open – and _oh_ it was an effort – until he felt the soft nudge of Makkachin pressing her face against his baggy tracksuit bottoms. Dropping down to a crouch, he plucked the party hat from her; just rough enough for it to convey his annoyance to the two morons, but more than gentle enough to ensure that the action didn’t hurt the whimpering poodle. In all of this, Yurio thought, she was the sole innocent party. 

A soft tide of ice seeped along the floor in crackling whispers, stopping just short of the small island of Yurio and Makkachin. It drew back out again, shrinking around Yuuri. A heartbeat later, ice was mapping across to bridge the distance again. And back in to Yuuri. Out to Yurio. And back in to Yuuri. Out. In. Out. In. 

Without realising quite how, Yurio found that his breathing had caught up with the heave of his chest, and that the heave of his chest, in turn, had melted into a soft thing. In. Out. In. Out. He let his eyes touch Yuuri’s for just a second and the faint line around the dragon’s pupils turned to filigree. Yurio nodded, and Yuuri released his hold on Viktor’s arm. 

Yuuri hadn’t been looking at him with _pity,_ Yurio realised with a meteoric jolt, but with _empathy._ A maggot wriggled in Yurio’s heart and the ache of it was smoky. _Guilt._  

“Yurochka?” Viktor’s voice sounded like the tide of Yuuri’s wash of ice. A hand was offered to him and Yurio, after a moment’s deliberation, took it. “There you go. On your feet. I’m sorry, okay?” When Viktor hugged him, Yurio waited a whole _ten seconds_ before shoving him away. “I’ll clean all this stuff up.” 

Yurio just nodded, because what else could he do? If he said anything, he was sure, it would just make things worse, and he _really_ didn’t want to hurt Viktor any more than he already had. It was the eye of the storm, and Yurio could admit to himself _he’s just trying his hardest. We all are._  

“No,” Yurio found the word jettisoning from him. “I. It.” He scowled out a sigh. Viktor broke into a beam and, _damn it all,_ Yurio knew he was trapped (but in a good way). “You’ve put all this hard work into it, and.”

“Yay!” Viktor clapped his hands delightedly, even Makkachin _yipped_ her joy. The older Russian did that stupid heart-shaped smile of his and, right then, Yurio knew he was doing the right thing. 

A breath of frost curled around Yurio’s hand like a question mark and he found his gaze trailed to Yuuri. The dragon tilted his head to the side, his lips small and drawn forwards. Because he understood, Yurio nodded. 

It was, after all, his sweet sixteen. 

The celebrations were somewhat stripped back; ‘cake’ for breakfast (rendered all but inedible thanks to Yuuri taking the term ‘frosting’ a little bit _too_ literally – not that either Viktor or Yurio had the heart to tell him so), the ceremonial Opening of The Present (a vintage radio in a bright red colour that only grasped the strands of three stations; one dedicated to classical music, another that ripped out punk rock exclusively from the 1980s, and a third that consisted solely of people shouting in angry Flemish – Yurio _loved_ it), and then lazing about in the living room all day, watching old VHS tapes of films that Yurio had long ago pretended to stop liking. They had not sung him Happy Birthday, but Yurio had been unable to stop Viktor from posting a photograph of the three of them, Yurio in the centre warmed into a slight smile, on Instagram with the caption _some days are really good at reminding you of what you have._  

The day was a good day, in the same way that hugging a friend after too long apart is good. Despite the perpetual static of iciness that clung to their house, Yurio felt _warm_. So maybe the day hadn’t gotten off to the best of starts, but endings matter more than beginnings. He felt lighter somehow; he was still carrying the same weight and it pushed on him, but there were hands helping him. For the first time in a long time, Yurio didn’t feel _alone._  

His thoughts were fractured by the tiptoe of a snore. He peeled his eyes from the screen – it was the pink elephant scene in _Dumbo_ – to see that Yuuri and Viktor had both fallen asleep. On top of each other. They had this annoying habit of always winding up with the vast majority of their surface areas glued together and Yurio was beginning to wonder how it didn’t get in the way of everyday living. The big question, however, was _how on Earth hasn’t Viktor frozen to death yet?_  

Muttering something to Makkachin along the lines of _see what I have to put up with,_ Yurio got to his feet, dug up a blanket and draped it over them. Yuuri nuzzled his chin against Viktor’s neck, and the halo of Viktor’s smile melted into a soft pout as he sleep-kissed Yuuri’s hair. Before he could stop the thought forming, a little voice in the back of Yurio’s head muttered _that looks nice will I ever get that it looks like home._

Shaking that – ridiculous, pointless, stupid – idea from his head, Yurio storm-clouded out of the front door into the hair-ruffling breeze of the evening. The stars were a dribble of milk plodding across black velvet. One winked at Yurio and suddenly his throat tightened into a knot. He could remember, as a child of around four or five, asking Yakov where his parents were. _They’re dead, Yuri, eaten,_ Yakov had said without a pause as he picked out the smallest sword he could find for his protégé. To which Yurio had replied _like Pirozhki?_ and Yakov had nodded. That had been that. No big deal. Fast forward six or seven years, and there an eleven-year-old Yurio had been, watching _The Lion King_ with Viktor because _what do you mean you’ve never seen it it’s a classic you poor child._ It had gotten to the part about past kings making up the stars and the words _are my parents stars too_ had traipsed out of his mouth because what if they were, what if they were watching him, what if he wasn’t alone and they’d _sent_ him Viktor? Viktor, a 23-year-old suddenly in the role of single parent, had just gone very, very quiet. And then he’d pulled Yurio into a bone-creaking hug in a flurry of _I’m here I’ve got you my parents are stars too we’ve got each other I won’t let anything bad happen to you I promise._  

A thick scarf of cloud smogged across the sky, cutting off the stars. Yurio felt the loss in the depths of his muscles and in the surface of his skin. He dropped himself down onto their front step. A murmur of faraway music waltzed in on the wind. 

The smudge of a figure blurred into sight, weaving through the streetlights. As it got closer, Yurio could tell it was a powderpuff of a cat, its face and feet and tail smudged in charcoal. He darted his eyes around, and then made a high _sheeeek sheeeek_ of a noise with his teeth and lips, eyes ballooning as the cat darted closer. Yurio exhaled a sigh as his fingers sunk into the cat’s fur; it was as soft as the twinkling time between dreaming and waking. The cat rolled its back under his hand and thrummed out a purr, its yellow eyes hazy with pleasure. In another life, Yurio thought, he might one day grow up and settle down in a house with two bedrooms, a white picket fence, a cat flap. But no. Yurio had been with the Shield long enough to know that people like him didn’t get to grow up, much less settle down. 

It was getting cold and, not that it would be much warmer indoors, Yurio knew he should head inside. The thin wire of a _meeeow?_ crept along with him as stood up. He tossed his head to the side, in the direction of the main street to which their humble alley was a tributary. Part of Yurio had hoped that the cat would refuse to move, that it would shadow him into the house but, of course, it didn’t. It bounded down the steps and to the end of alleyway. 

If Yurio had looked over his shoulder as he opened the front door, he would have seen two sets of eyes glinting back at him; one in torchlight-glare yellow, and the other in a void shade of oily black. But he did not. 

 

* * *

 

The forest welcomed Yuuri as an old friend, the trees bowing to him in the breeze. A thatch of green formed a tight ceiling like fingers knotting together. It smelt damp in a spongy sort of way, with an undertone of pinpricked freshness and crumbling dirt. The breeze whispered through again and the forest breathed in unison. A corps de ballet of bluebells danced and, yes, Yuuri had been right – they _did_ bring out Viktor’s eyes.

Viktor was stumbling around in a wobbly circle, his hair a ruffled scream of silver, his hands clutching around the scabbard hung loosely around his waist. Yuuri watched as the older man pried his hands away from the security blanket in favour of smoothing them through his hair. Yuuri smiled without realising that he was doing it.

“What. How.” Viktor swallowed, turning his face – void of colour apart from the pink biting into the apples of his cheeks – to Yuuri. Yuuri blinked back, his smile evaporating because _maybe this wasn’t a good idea what if it makes him see what if he thinks I’m a freak._ “We were in St Petersburg. And now we’re not.”

“We’re not.” 

“Right. We’re not.” Viktor blinked. “You asked me on a date. I said yes. And now we’re here.”

“Now we’re here.” Yuuri dropped his face to the floor, wishing he could think of something to say that wasn’t repetition. Ice coiled around his wrists to form faded scars. The corners of his eyes ached. He felt his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket – in his left was the first spoon he’d taken, and in the right was his melon baller. He forced himself to look at Viktor and he exhaled frost; the older man didn’t look angry or repulsed, but he did look profoundly confused. “I’m very fast. And very strong.” 

In the space of a heartbeat, Viktor was up close to Yuuri, close enough that their noses touched and Yuuri didn’t flinch or hiss or arch. Because this was _Viktor_ and being close to Viktor was to breathe in sunlight and gold. Being close to Viktor was to understand warmth. 

And then Viktor was drawing pretty pictures against Yuuri’s cheek with his fingertip; it felt like the notation of an ethereally high note. There was a scraping, fluttering sound as Yuuri’s wings unfurled and flexed, drinking in the filtered light. A blush rashed across Yuuri’s cheeks like a million pinpricks of ice. 

“S-sorry.” He started to heave his wings back in on themselves, his joints groaning in protest because they weren’t supposed to stay folded away for so long and it _hurt_ but, Yuuri was sure, it was the human aspects of him that Viktor loved. Yes, Viktor loved him _in spite of_ his more draconian features. 

“No, hey. Don’t put them away.” Viktor’s eyes were bright. Blinking, Yuuri flexed his wings outwards and watched as Viktor’s eyes swelled from stars to moons. He wasn’t just being looked at; he was being _beheld_. “They’re _beautiful_. You, are beautiful. I wish you’d get them out more.”

“You do?” 

“Of course I do.” Viktor stepped backwards so he could take in the full scope of the picture. “I mean, maybe not indoors because we don’t have a whole lot of space and if you smash another window with them I think Yurio might kill us both, but I do. They’re a part of you, and I want to see every single part of you, _Drakonchik_ , all the time. Besides,” his face flashed into a grin, “they’re really cool! I’m dating a _dragon_ and he has _wings_ and he’s drop-dead _gorgeous_ and I love him _very much_. Okay?”

A flare flew up inside of Yuuri and exploded through his veins, filtering up to his face in a smile. He pulled his wings around, sweeping Viktor in close. The high, giggled sound of shock from the older man sounded like spraying stardust and Yuuri locked it away in the music box of his memory. He bundled Viktor up close, his wings forming a tomb for them, the black opal skin of them thin enough to let light filter through.

They kissed, close and deep, like a secret. It was as easy, as natural, as breathing together and to Yuuri it felt like flying. It felt like freedom. Like _belonging._ There was an edge of mint to Viktor’s lips, and Yuuri wondered what he tasted like to the older man – probably blood, he thought, which he felt to be a good thing considering he could think of nothing more enticing.  

When Viktor pulled away, Yuuri didn’t even have the good grace to be embarrassed by the high, needy whine he let out because _why did he stop kissing me it’s not fair he should always be kissing me._ Viktor tucked back a strand of Yuuri’s hair, and the dragon shivered, hailstones dripping down his back. The smirk on Viktor’s face softened into a pastel smudge. He touched a kiss to Yuuri’s forehead and the heat of it radiated outwards. 

“Can I touch them?” 

Of course Yuuri nodded because how could he ever deny Viktor anything? 

Viktor’s handprint burnt against the delicate skin of his wings, the touch digging right down into the depths of him and nestling there like a diamond. His eyes sunk back in his head as Viktor soothed a thumb over one of the joints, a mewled sort of purring sound drifting out of his lips of its own accord because _yes_ nothing had ever felt so good. Viktor’s lips quirked but all Yuuri could focus on was the way they were both so close and breathing and Viktor was touching his wings and it felt like being born again. The world could have crumbled away from beneath their feet, and Yuuri would have been none the wiser. 

It didn’t last. Razors pricked at Yuuri’s gums, black smoke rose to his eyes, and he threw his wings outwards, nearly tripping Viktor up in the process. Yuuri could hear the poetic rush of Viktor’s blood in his veins, the way it whispered bad things to him. It kept him up at night. 

“ _Drakonchik?”_  

“Sorry. I.” Yuuri wet his slightly swollen lips. “You smell good.” 

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Viktor’s face melted around the heat in his eyes and Yuuri thought _so not helping._ Yuuri raised his eyes to the older man, everything aching because he’d only eaten that morning but what did that matter when Viktor was stood right there and _I bet he wouldn’t even try to fight me I could just snap his neck and he wouldn’t even know wouldn’t even feel it._ The world spun around him in varying kaleidoscopic layers, twisting and turning. “Why don’t we go for a walk?” 

Yuuri forced a nod; movement was good. 

As they walked through the forest, far enough from one another that the beat of Viktor’s heart was just a gentle murmur, the tension slithered from Yuuri. He spat flecks of ice from his fingertips, burning out the energy until the sharp edges were blurred into obscurity. He loved Viktor, of course he did, he adored the man so much that the feeling saturated his entire body – but at the same time there was a plume of darkness in him that breathed to life whenever they got too close; Yuuri never wanted to do _anything_ to hurt Viktor, but sometimes it was _more_ than a want. Long ago, he’d made a promise to himself that anyone who dare lay a finger on Viktor would face the death penalty. This extended to himself. 

“What’s on your mind?” Viktor’s voice was so _soft._ Yuuri had to shut his eyes against the brightness. “ _Drakonchik?”_ He was forced to full-stop halt by the sudden spin of Viktor all but throwing himself into Yuuri’s path. Yuuri tilted his head to the side, his lips pulled into a confused pout at the open-flame of Viktor’s face. “I know what you’re thinking. And you’re not dangerous. You’re _not._ Not to me. I’m not scared of you.” 

_You should be_. 

“I love you. And you love me, don’t you?”

_Of course I do._

“Then you won’t hurt me. Besides,” Viktor tapped his scabbard, “I’ve got my _shashka_ to protect me.” 

Yuuri wanted to shake his head, to scream at Viktor that no sword would stand a chance against him, but he couldn’t. Not when Viktor was looking at him like that. Not when Yuuri wanted so desperately to agree. So he nodded. Things weren’t that simple but, for the moment at least, he could let them be. When Viktor took his hand, webs of ice bonded their skin together.

They walked on, Yuuri letting Viktor guide him as his thoughts drifted into daydreams. It was an unhealthy habit to get into, Yuuri knew, but he wished he wasn’t a dragon. His fingers itched to snatch up Viktor’s _shashka_ and use it to slice his wings off. He wanted to drink fire until all of the ice in him had melted. He ached to sit around the dinner table with Viktor and Yurio and for them all to eat Yurio’s homemade _Pirozhki_ together. Most of all, though, he want to be able to kiss Viktor and not have to constantly be checking himself because _oops sorry darling we have to stop because I think I might eat you_ was not normal.

No. Yuuri shook his head to himself. Viktor _liked_ his magic. He had called Yuuri’s wings _beautiful._ When Yuuri made spirals of ice firework into the air, Viktor would clap and gush and make Yuuri feel like a telescope; a window to wonderful things. Maybe, just maybe, Yuuri thought, Viktor loved him _because_ he was a dragon. Not in spite of it. 

Ice itched at his skin, whispering to be let out because Viktor was there and Viktor _loved_ Yuuri’s iciness. And who was Yuuri to deny Viktor anything? 

Up ahead, Yuuri knew, was a pond. A plan crystallised in his head to match the stretch of a smile illuminating his features. There were things he hated about himself, there always would be, but that was okay because Viktor was there to love them on his behalf. Besides, Yuuri thought, if he wasn’t a dragon he wouldn’t have been able to protect Viktor – and that alone was worth all the spoons in the world.

When they reached the pond, Yuuri threw a tilted glance at Viktor. Here, he could be confident. _Watch me._

He slid his hand from Viktor’s and paced to the water’s edge, dropping to a crouch in the damp grass. Everything in the forest was singing to him and it wasn’t harmony but it was vitality. He breathed it in, out, in again – and he caught the hook of it in his lungs. Placing his hands on the skin of the stagnant water, he breathed out. He could have had it done in an instant, but no; Viktor wanted _magic._ Veins of ice scrabbled along the water and doubled back, colouring in the glacial blue lines until the pond was no longer a pond but a rink. 

There was soft block of a sound as Viktor, behind him, pressed his hands together. A gasp like frost crested into the air and it touched Yuuri in ripples. He rolled his shoulder blades once, twice, and concertinaed his wings back into place. 

“You’re a _miracle,_ Yuuri. That’s exactly what you are.” Viktor’s eyes were glistening and for a moment, just a moment, Yuuri suspected him of tears. “Is it safe to walk on?” 

“I can do better than that.” Yuuri smiled to himself, snowflakes sparking off of his fingers in anticipation. 

Dropping from a crouch down onto his knees, Yuuri turned his body to be facing Viktor. Gently, conscious of his own strength, he tugged upwards at the older man’s ankle. Against the sole of his shoe, Yuuri drew a sharp curve in ice hard enough to be diamond. More than happy to have Viktor rest his weight on Yuuri to help the human balance, Yuuri replicated the design on the bottom of Viktor’s other shoe. No, not shoe: skate. 

He quickly scribbled blades onto his own boots and sprung to his feet. Biting down on his lip, he realised that something wasn’t quite right – it wasn’t _magical_ enough. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe _out._ And there it was; snow was gilding the surrounding fringe of trees, icicles dancing in the fading sunlight. 

Without a word of warning, Viktor fastened his arms tightly around Yuuri’s middle, squeezing like a child with a teddy bear. Affection bubbled in Yuuri’s chest, threatening to spill over in the form of tears. Only with Viktor by his side had he ever felt like anything other than curse. Even Phichit, kind and wonderful Phichit, always kept one eye on him; Yuuri wished that Viktor would do too, that Viktor would see just how dangerous Yuuri truly was, but it was the fact that he _didn’t_ that made Yuuri love him so apocalyptically much. 

For a moment they just stood there, Viktor holding and Yuuri being held. Their heartbeats synched to the thrum of the forest. This, now and forever, would be _their_ place. 

And then Viktor was bounding onto the ice like Makkachin after a plate of unattended food. 

And then Yuuri was laughing as he _ziiiipped_ ahead, arms already open for when Viktor inevitably fell. 

Later that evening, sprawled beneath the sky, Viktor found himself looking up at the stars. A million adventures were up there, too many to count, but the only one he cared about was lying in the dewy grass next to him. He squeezed Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri squeezed back.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Viktor looked down over his dragon. The soft tide of his chest as he breathed reminded Viktor of lazy Sunday mornings, the brown quartz smoke of his eyes reminded Viktor of a stained cathedral window backlit by sunlight. Everything about Yuuri was happy memories and love and belonging. 

“Vitya?” Yuuri’s voice was a delicate flick of a thing, made gummy by almost-sleep. He blinked and Viktor could feel each individual eyelash brush against his heart. “Why’re you looking at me like that?” 

“Because, _Drakonchik,_ ” he dipped down to punctuate with a kiss to the peak of Yuuri’s nose, “I love you. Who needs stars when I have you?”

 

* * *

 

If you had asked Yurio what kind of idea it had been, he would have growled that it was _fucking terrible_ one. 

If you had asked Viktor, however, he probably would have chirped out _the best idea ever in the history of best ideas._  

If you had asked Yuuri, he probably would have vomited a sheet of icy slush straight onto your shoes. 

Right at that moment, the two humans were helping a _very drunk_ dragon weave through the narrow St Petersburg allies back to their own little shoebox of a place. Viktor, who had matched Yuuri glass for claret glass, was doing nothing to help other than wearing Yuuri’s arm around his neck like a scarf and singing loudly in tuneless Russian, stopping every couple of verses to explain the lyrics to Yuuri in English. It made no sense in either language.  

The main weight of the dragon fell to Yurio, who had spent his evening sipping grouchily at an orange juice and spitting at _those two damn idiots_ to _go get a fucking room_ every time they dared give each other The Look. 

Everything felt sort of loose for Yuuri, who had never touched a drop of alcohol before. He wasn’t sure if he was tilting his head from side to side, or if the world itself was tilting. Probably a bit of both, he decided. He let out a dizzy bark of laughter and couldn’t remember why. Something funny. Probably Viktor. Or maybe it was Yurio’s face. Yurio always had a funny face. Like a little kid playing dress-up. 

“Yuuri! Yuuri, look!” 

They all stopped walking at Viktor’s smudge of an outburst. The oldest of them was pointing excitedly up at the sky, at the huge, unblinking pearl of the moon beaming down at them like a proud mother. 

Viktor snatched up Yuuri’s hands and hauled him close, the dragon stumbling to keep up. He took a moment to nuzzle his nose against the sleek feathering of Yuuri’s hair, the way it smelt of coconut and it made something in him swell because _his_ hair smelt of coconut too and wasn’t that just _wonderful?_  

Yurio dropped himself down to sit on the pavement because staying standing was too heavy. Why had he agreed to go out with them? No, he knew exactly why – protecting Viktor was still his job, even if he did have a dragon for a guard-dog now. Yurio was still needed. Something cloud-soft nudged against his hand; the powderpuff of a cat that had all but become Yurio’s shadow over the past few weeks. He gestured to the mess of two men stood gazing up at the moon and she gave him an _I know_ sort of meow. 

The moon was especially big, Viktor thought, and especially beautiful. He was trying to articulate this when, suddenly, Yuuri’s legs turned to jelly and Viktor had to fasten his arms around the smaller man, _quick,_ before his most precious thing hit the ground and shattered, because that’s what precious things do. Viktor’s heart wasn’t so much beating as punching but no, no, it was okay because he’d caught Yuuri and there they were in St Petersburg, in the moonlight and oh! _Oh,_ Yuuri was kissing him. It was a movie star moment; Yuuri dipping above the ground, held up only by Viktor’s (not inconsiderable) strength, a sort of dancing pose, like the tango. Dancing. Now there was an idea. But no. Now was not the time for ideas because Yuuri was kissing him. Viktor sunk, open-mouthed, against Yuuri. 

Like a deflated accordion Yuuri’s wings lolloped out, one then the other, ripping two great, gaping holes in his shirt. Viktor didn’t mind that because the only thing better than kissing Yuuri was kissing a shirtless Yuuri and, in turn, the only thing better than kissing a shirtless Yuuri was kissing a shirtless _winged_ Yuuri. 

“ _Moron_ ,” Yurio’s voice was a hissed shriek and suddenly the sixteen-year-old was rushing over. “Put those _away!_ Anyone could be around.” Viktor pouted but was cut off by the slicing gesture of Yurio’s hand. “I’ll deal with _you_ when we get home. This is all your fault.” 

And then Viktor was left empty-armed, because Yurio had dragged Yuuri away from him, desperately trying to help the intoxicated dragon fold his wings back up. A lick of jealousy burnt through Viktor, and he muttered something along the lines of _you are so grounded young man._  

“Don’t you black-eye _me_ , Jabberwocky.” 

“I was kissing Viktor and you made it stop.”  Viktor nodded his protest at this grave injustice.

“No. You were _eating Viktor’s face_ and exposing yourself. This is the last time I go out with you two.”

Thankfully, Yurio thought, home was only two doors away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. If any of you guys have read my other chapter-fic, you'll know that I really struggle with writing character development (this is both an apology and a warning). In the first section of this chapter I've tried to show how Viktor's developed; before, he was so quick to write off everything about his life as boring and he was hungry for adventure. Now, though, he gets excited over the most mundane box of spoons because his world view has changed - all thanks to Yuuri and their love for each other. Yes, he's getting a 'real' adventure too, but he's seeing wonder in the everyday things as well. 
> 
> 2\. The price Viktor pays for the spoons, 1,500 rubles equates to £20.33, or US$25.42.
> 
> 3\. Yurio's view of Yuuri has very much shifted from being 'I tolerate him because Yuuri=Happy Vitya' to 'I tolerate him because I like him', which is something that Yurio is very uncomfortable with because a) he's programmed to kill people like Yuuri and b) he doesn't really do opening up, which is why he can be so vicious towards Yuuri; he's scared, and it's not because Yuuri is dangerous. He's lost a lot of people - his parents, and most of the friends he's ever had at the Shield have died (last chapter Yakov said they had a 'high turnover', and this chapter Yurio talks about having been a slayer long enough to know that he won't get to grow up) - so he's very anxious about letting people in just to lose them again. He's also wary of Yuuri because he's scared that Yuuri will steal Viktor away from him.
> 
> 4\. I've been wanting Yurio to have a proper meltdown for ages, and I never intended to put it in his birthday scene but that's just where it wrote itself into. The panic attack isn't just because he doesn't want to celebrate his birthday (Viktor has clearly thrown birthday stuff for him before, and I don't think he would if Yurio had had a panic attack every time) but rather it's the straw that breaks the camel's back. The whole 'tide of ice' thing was meant to be Yuuri covertly coaching Yurio into steady breathing, but I'm not sure if I really made that clear. Like I've said before, Yuuri sees a lot of himself in Yurio and thus feels very protective over him (I was going to have another scene in this chapter about Viktuuri's first fight; Viktor carries Yurio home from practice because he's gotten himself hurt and Yuuri flips his shit, wings out, black eyes, because 'Viktor he's our young you're supposed to protect him how could you let this happen' - but that didn't make the final cut).
> 
> 5\. So dragons have special connections with animals, right? Yuuri has Makkachin, and there was that pigeon who helped him with the washing up a few chapters ago. Minami said animals would just come to him. So with that in mind, the cat following Yurio has special significance. 
> 
> 6\. Why does Yuuri get embarrassed when his wings come out? A couple of chapters ago, it was said that dragon's wings function as peacock feathers; they only come out to attract a mate or to scare off an enemy. So basically, whenever Yuuri's wings come out around Viktor, it's because he feels very strongly attracted to him.
> 
> 7\. Viktor is still very much a Romantic in terms of Yuuri being a dragon. All he can think of is that it's cool and unusual and adventurous and, he thinks, kind of hot. It's not twigging for him that Yuuri could very easily lose control because he's only seeing the beautiful, arms-length danger of it. He still feels like a comic book hero. 
> 
> 8\. If you cast your mind back to the first chapter, you'll remember that Viktor never looked at the stars. Now, he does. This goes back to the whole Yuuri-changing-his-world-view thing. Does that count as character development? 
> 
> 9\. When they were walking home and Yuuri's wings popped out? Someone we know saw them. 
> 
>    
> Thank you very much for reading this mess of a chapter, and I hope you enjoyed it! I know I'm not the clearest of writers, so if you have any questions I would love to answer them! 
> 
> A playlist for Yurio (again, if you don't think they apply at present, consider it to be foreshadowing):  
> \- Fear and Loathing by Marina and The Diamonds  
> \- Bite My Tongue by You Me At Six  
> \- Imaginary Enemy by The Used  
> \- Raised by Wolves by Falling In Reverse  
> \- F.O.D. by Green Day  
> \- Little Lion Man by Tonight Alive (originally by Mumford & Sons)  
> Bonus track: Not While I'm Around from Sweeney Todd 
> 
> Next chapter: Mila lives up to her codename, Phichit is a knight in shining armour, Yurio picks a side, Yuuri stands his ground, and Viktor gives Fate the middle finger (aka, Shit Hits The Fan Part I).


	7. Stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a third of this was written on an over-crowded train; a third was written from within the flames of a small tribe of rabid children (I stayed with my baby siblings for the weekend and they are all literally Satan); and the final third was scrawled out through a fever because death is coming for me. I would like to think that excuses the shit show you're about to drag your eyes through. 
> 
> Or: I really don't like how this chapter turned out and I'm sorry. I just really suck at writing any kind of conflict.

 

Yurio hadn’t needed an alarm clock that morning. Oh no, the Jabberwocky had had that one covered. There Yurio had been, curled into a tight bean shape under his small mountain of blankets, a sparsely-furred cat plushie tucked firmly under his arm (Viktor had bought it for him aeons ago; both of its glass eyes were lost to the fiddling fingers of Time, and they had been replaced with two mismatched buttons, but it’s smile was still the same and holding it felt like home), dreaming about white picket fences and cat flaps, when a thunderous roar of a sound had woken him up. Claws through flesh. The sandpaper roughness of bricks snagging at skin. Pounding. Ripping. Retching. It had taken the slice of the sun on Yurio’s face for him to realise, with a wince, that he was awake. The crux of it was this; Yuuri was gushing claret slush puppies into the toilet, still draped in the tatters of his shirt from the night before, and thus Viktor couldn’t _possibly_ come to training. Yuuri was sick, _hungover,_ and _of course_ Viktor couldn’t leave his side. So there Yurio was, punching his way through the streets of St Petersburg, his face cast in the all-embracing shadow of his hood. He was a creature of angles and sharpness. 

A thought slit across his mind and he felt vaguely guilty for thinking it: _would Viktor stay home like that if I got sick?_ But then he nearly slipped on a patch of ice yet to be scraped from the pavement, and he realised _they both would_. The spring of a thought jolted the ground from underneath him, and he walked faster to catch up to it with a _hey shithead watch where you’re going_ when he nearly bowled over a grey-stained businessman. 

Telling Yakov that Viktor wouldn’t be in training because he’d decided, in all his _infinite_ Chosen Fucking One wisdom, to drip a small ravine of red wine down the throat of a clumsily naïve _dragon_ was not a task that Yurio was looking forward to. Of course, he wouldn’t put it _quite_ like that – but he fully intended on sticking just close enough to the truth that Viktor would get what was coming to him the next time he deigned to grace the Shield with his presence. 

The honeycomb of St Petersburg was abuzz, and walking down the street felt like crawling over a hundred other people – tourists with cameras around their necks, legions of businessmen who all seemed to wear the same suit, mothers pushing prams, fathers holding sticky hands, kids in school uniforms waddling in puddleduck lines. Yurio would never be like any of them. But then again, none of them would ever be like him. In his pocket, he looped his fingers around the cool handle of his misericorde and gave it a loose squeeze. _How many of these people wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me what does it matter that I’m not them when they’re only alive because I’m me?_  

Yurio shook those thoughts from his head because he’d been up too late trying to steer two people intent on absorbing themselves into one single entity to bed, and he’d been woken up too early by a hungover dragon spurting vomit and, anyway, it wasn’t the sort of thing he liked to dwell on. He loved what he did, loved the traces of fire in his veins. Briefly, it occurred to Yurio that none of this was normal _._ Most families aren’t.

As he walked the final stretch towards the St Petersburg Shield of Dragon Slayers he scanned his eyes around for any traces of charcoal or whispers of powderpuff. Around the corner he thought he saw the black paintbrush tip tail of the cat that he’d begun to half think of as being almost his. 

The obsidian doors of the Shield breathed open and he strode in. _Another day at the office._ The bright white of the corridor carved lines into his eyes and it felt like a joke, like _haha you were up half the night, loser!_ His hand tightened around the handle of his dagger and, as the doors slid shut behind him, he eased it out of his pocket and twirled it in lazy daisy chains. 

Walking the corridor felt like drifting through formaldehyde; dreamlike and surreal in its regularity. Yurio wasn’t thinking about where his feet were going because he didn’t have to. This place had been his home long before he’d realised what _home_ was (and consequently realised that _this_ wasn’t it). 

He slanted past the gallery of quotes – all of them too fucking pretentious for Yurio to take seriously because, no, _glory is not the same as blood_ – and past the elevator. After a while, the corridor curved, slowly at first so that any unfamiliar walker wouldn’t have even realised it. The vague shiver of a smell – brittle, fake lemon made of too much sugar and not enough oxygen – shivered through the walls. _The cleaners must have been._  

In all of his years at the Shield, Yurio had never reached the end of this corridor. It didn’t strike him as strange. 

He stopped just after a glass panel quote detailing the quartzy similarities between clouds and war. Yurio could feel a cold, mechanical eye on him like a fly on meat, drinking in his proportions and edges and angles. He couldn’t remember the first time he’d been scanned like that, but Yakov had told him enough times that it had become mythology; Yurio had been too short for the scanner to pick him up, which had sent the toddler into an apocalyptic strop that he could only be eased out of by being given a shiny new mace to play with. 

A fragment of blue-bright light sliced a rectangle into the wall and it slid to the side like the turning page of a storybook. One hand gnawing into the jut of his hip, Yurio swanned through. 

Yakov’s office comprised of two rooms. The first, the one that Yurio was now in, looked like the impoverished distant cousin of a French art museum. Everything was coated in a skin of faux marble, apart from the seats which were a harsh metal that bit into the skin of anyone foolish enough to assume that chairs were actually for sitting on. Opposite him, perpendicular to the segment of wall now breezing shut behind Yurio, was a huge slab of an oak door, the skin of it artistically mottled. It was the one normal door in the entire Shield building, and Yurio read it as self-importance. But given that Yakov was the oldest (and thus most successful) professional dragon slayer in the world, Yurio figured that a little bit of self-importance could be excused. 

He strolled over to knock on the door, misericorde carving loose windmills into the air at his side only for the gentle-sharp movement to slice to a stop. The door hadn’t been shut properly and Yakov always kept it locked, even when he was sat in there. Some bullshit about security being the key to longevity. 

Yurio pressed his back flush to the wall next to the door, hinge-side. The handle of his misericode cut shadows into the child-soft skin of his palm. His training slipped over him like a wash, dulling his senses; he did not feel afraid, nor did the vacuous boom of his heart punch panic into his lungs. No. He felt _ambient._ At peace. Breathing in deeply, he wrinkled his nose at the smell seeping in through the crack in the door. A dragon at war would puff plumes of sulphur into the air and, generally speaking, the smell of fire and blood would be a scream audible long before sight. But the office just smelt clinical – faraway wisps of fraudulent lemon, the raw chocolate and leather cologne that Yakov doused himself in, the chilled petrol smell that breathed through every nook of the city. There was no yellowed-pages, broken-binding creaking of wings. If anything, Yurio felt a little chilly; the room was void of heat. 

_There are no dragons here._

“Georgi, this better not be a bust. You _asked_ to be assigned to Nikiforov’s boyfriend. You’re the one who made the big fuss about the pictures on the, whatsit, on the Intergrom. Instagram, that’s it. You better not be wasting my time. Not again.” Yakov’s voice was gravelly growl, a graze of a thing. “What have you got for me?”

“A picture. From last night.” Yurio could practically hear the smirk to Georgi’s voice. He gripped his misericorde white-knuckle tight and imagined it was Georgi’s neck. “I tailed them. And then, this happened.” A heartbeat. “Yakov, Nikiforov’s boyfriend has _wings._ Very, draconic-looking wings, wouldn’t you say? I knew he wasn’t the sweet little Mr Perfect he’s tricked everyone into thinking he is.”

“Careful, Georgi; we don’t get personal about cases.” There was a murky creak, and the pacing tick-tock of steady footsteps. Yurio would have recognised the sound of Yakov’s gait anywhere and once it would have been a lullaby sound; now it was the bounding leaps of an oncoming nightmare. “Well, there’s no doubt about it. The boy – what’s his name?” 

“Yuuri.” 

“Yes. Yuuri. Yuuri is a dragon.” 

“What are your orders?” 

“Scramble a team. We are going to do what we always do when a dragon enters our territory.” 

Yurio was burning tracks back through St Petersburg, the air in his lungs evaporating into acrid smoke and the pulling of his calves so painful that it had surpassed the point of being felt, before he even realised that he had made a choice. Because he had. And he would choose Viktor’s happiness every damn time. 

No, he shook his head against the fangs of the breeze, he would choose his _family_ every damn time. He told himself that it was the cold making his eyes water. 

 _I am not going to lose someone else. Not again. Not if I can help it._  

 

* * *

 

When Yurio exploded through the door, Yuuri just _knew._ Okay, so maybe he’d told himself that every time Yurio came home with anything less than a smile on his face. Every time Yurio looked at him Yuuri heard _they know_ like thin ice cracking underfoot. But no. No. This time was different. Sprawled on the couch, Viktor holding a bag of ice cubes to his forehead, Yuuri knew. This was it. Ice crystallised in his bone marrow.

First things first, though. Yurio was _crying,_ and that gold seam of protectiveness spilled through his arteries because _Yurio has cried on his own too many times and he might not be a kid anymore but he’s still young and you protect your young._ It was the quiet kind of crying, and that hurt Yuuri more than the screaming kind ever could have. Nails biting into skin.

He vaulted himself to be upright, pushing Viktor away in the process, only to hiss at the splatters of pain resonating through his brain. It felt like his skull was full of water, or like it was stone dry – he couldn’t quite decide which. Frost sparked from his fingers, the antithesis of fireflies. They buzzed around Yurio in a loose embrace.

“Yurio.” He let the ache bleed into his voice as he heaved to his feet, the movement an entire production. Viktor was at his side, of course, arm around his waist and Yuuri thought _warm_. It took all of his not inconsiderable self-control to not melt into the older human’s side, nose pressed to his chest. But the time for softness had passed. “It’s okay.” 

“No. No, it’s _not_.” As always, Yurio spoke in spitfires. Yuuri dreaded the day that fire would burn out because, of course, that day would come. He knew it would. _Not if I can help it._ “You stupid fucking Jabberwocky, of course it fucking isn’t.”

Viktor looked between the two of them. Yuuri first, then Yurio, Yuuri, Yurio, like a pendulum. The viral countdown of a bomb. Ice creaked a bridge across the floor connecting two islands, and Yuuri inclined his nose in its direction. Viktor walked the bridge to Yurio’s side. Yuuri watched as Viktor hugged his palms over Yurio’s cheeks;  his insides went cavernous when Yurio did nothing to extinguish Viktor’s concern. Yurio was not a soft person and, often, Yuuri found himself wanting to dull his sharpness. Now that he had, he wanted to get cut on the teenager’s edges.

“Yurochka,” Viktor’s voice got caught on the corners. _I should stand with them,_ Yuuri thought. He didn’t move. The ice bridge retracted itself and then crawled back at the high, throaty hiccup snagging at the back of Yurio’s mouth. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“They know,” Yuuri supplied because it seemed cruel to let Yurio flounder through it. He let himself step forwards, and then again, again, until he was a breath away. He watched the ragged snatch of Yurio’s breath turn to plumes in the frost. “That’s it, isn’t it? The Shield. They know about me.”

“What?” Viktor’s eyes widened and it was the static before an explosion. He dropped one hand from Yurio’s face and knotted it with one of Yuuri’s. 

It was enough to make Yuuri want to just collapse to the ground in a puddle of black ice because this was his _home_ and he _loved_ Viktor and he needed to _protect_ Yurio and he’d never felt like _this_ before and he wanted them to all tuck each other back _together_. He did not collapse though. Now was not the time for collapsing. His breath turned to puffs of vapour in his lungs but still, he forced himself to breathe. Viktor squeezed his hand and Yuuri squeezed back. 

Yurio stepped away from them and his absence from their tight little circle was tangible. Yuuri caught the glint of a blade twirling frenetically at the teenager’s side like a Catherine Wheel.

“What’s going on?” Yuuri forced his attention back to Viktor; he wanted to memorise every last part of his boyfriend. _Vitya._ “So the Shield know about him, right?” Yurio nodded, eyes to the ground. “What’s the big deal? Yuuri hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“He’s a dragon. That’s enough.” Yuuri felt oddly touched by the bite to Yurio’s voice. “The big deal is that they’re coming for him.” When Viktor just blinked, still somehow not quite twigging it, Yurio scowled. It was a half-hearted dreg of a thing. “They’re dragon slayers, Viktor. They are coming to _slay_ him.”

“I won’t let them.” Viktor sounded full-stop sure, so certain that Yuuri almost believed him. There was no question mark. Yuuri danced a breath of ice across the mountain range of Viktor’s knuckles.

“Don’t be a fucking moron, Vitya.”

“What? I’m the Chosen One. If I tell them no, then they - ”

“Will laugh in your face and do it anyway.” Yurio’s voice made Yuuri think of the frayed end of a piece of snapped rope. Green eyes darted him and Yuuri caught the gaze in soft hands because he could read the franticness of them, the deep yawn of smudged grey beneath them. If Yuuri wasn’t panicking it was only because of those green eyes. “Jabberwocky.  _Yuuri,_ you need to run.”

In his bones, Yuuri knew this assessment of things to be true. He did need to run. Far and fast and hard. They would track him though, now they knew who he was, and they would hunt him down. But running would give him, if nothing else, an extra few months.  An extra few months of what? Loneliness. Looking over his shoulder. Heart racing for all the wrong reasons. No arms around him. Glacial coldness.

In his veins, Yuuri knew what he had to do. It was fight or flight. Before, Yuuri would have chosen flight. But now, he had something worth fighting for. _Home. Warmth. Family._

“I will harm no human,” he started, and his voice was a strong solid thing that he’d never heard before, carved of ice, “but I _will_ stand my ground.”

“Then I will stand with you.” Yurio flicked his dagger into the air and caught the handle with fluid ease.

Before Yuuri had the chance to register the cataclysmic swell in his lungs, the new dimension of warmth writing itself into his ribs, Viktor was reeling him in to his chest, making a castle for Yuuri with his arms. But castles of skin and bone don’t fare so well against swords and crossbows. None of that mattered though, not when Yuuri could feel the steady thrum of Viktor’s heartbeat against his cheek, the haloing gild of Viktor’s lips pressed to his hair. Slowly, he twined his arms around the older man and Viktor melted against him; the movement was little more than a scarcely perceptible exhale, but Yuuri saw it, _felt_ it for what it was.

“We both will.” Viktor stepped back, tracing stories against Yuuri’s cheeks with his fingertips. Yuuri had never felt so fundamentally precious, and it ached in every part of him. “We will stand with you, Yuuri.” 

Yuuri shook his head and it felt like ripping himself apart because no, no he didn’t want this. He did, though. _Of course_ he did because here were Viktor and Yurio, his family, his pack, _loving_ him. But that was the very reason he _didn’t_ want it. _I never wanted to hurt them I never wanted to throw them into the fire I need to protect them._

He took Viktor’s hand and their fingers knotted together as naturally as a circuit completing. When he his fingers closed around Yurio’s free hand there was a slight tug of shocked resistance, the ebb of the tide, but then the teenager’s hand went boneless; not quite returning the act but openly offering no resistance. Sometimes holding is as important as being held. The _misericorde_ slipped into Yurio’s pocket to be replaced by Viktor’s hand. 

And there they were, the three of them. Together.

“Thank you. Both of you. You. You’re _wonderful._ You both are. Yurio, I’ve never met anyone as strong as you are.” Yuuri shut his eyes. “And Viktor, you. You’re my _everything._ You saved me. But I. I can’t accept this. You _can’t._ ”

“Shut the fuck up, Jabberwocky,” Yurio sniped, the metallic sharpness of it well and truly meant.

“You can accept it, _Drakonchik.”_ Viktor let out a breath of laughter, the sound tossed from the back of his throat. “You don’t really have a choice.”

“But, you, it. Vitya, the Shield, they’ll kick you out.”

“That’s if they don’t kill me first.” Viktor was grinning and although Yuuri never wanted Viktor to _not_ be smiling, he really wished he wasn’t. 

“I wouldn’t let them _touch_ you.” The grin wilted from Viktor’s face into an unfamiliar look of wide-eyed seriousness at the bite of Yuuri’s voice. 

“And you believe that, don’t you?” Yuuri nodded because it wasn’t even a question. “Good. Then believe _me_ when I say that I won’t let them take you away from me.” 

“But they’ll kick you out, Viktor.” There was a desperate, whiny drag to Yuuri’s voice because why couldn’t Viktor just, for once,  _see_. “I know what being the Chosen One means to you. You’ve only ever wanted adventure.” 

And then Viktor was breaking the circle but Yuuri could forgive him because it was in favour of framing Yuuri’s face with the cobwebs of his hands. The choking, retching sound Yurio spurted out when Viktor kissed Yuuri was half-hearted at best.

“You’re the greatest adventure I could ever have,” Viktor purred the words, his lips close enough to Yuuri’s that their breath made small tornadoes where it met in the non-space between them. “We will stand with you.” 

“Of course we will.” Yurio tossed his head into a sharp, angular incline, the curtain of his fairy-dust blond hair slicing open. He had grown since Yuuri had first met him, all those months ago, and the puppy fat had evaporated from his cheeks. “We’re a pack, aren’t we?” 

Makkachin, who had been tucked up asleep on the rug, leapt to her feet with an agreeable _woof._  

Yuuri couldn’t help it; with a smile crowning his face, he nodded. Snowflakes spat from his fingertips because _I belong here._  

He shook his head, forcing his focus because this wasn’t their Happily Ever After. Not yet. A plan. They needed some kind of plan. But Yuuri was no leader and his experiences with dragon slayers were blessedly limited to the population of the living room. Hating himself for doing it because _he’s so young,_ he turned his attention to Yurio. The teenager caught his look and nodded, the corners of his lips cutting into a whisper of a smirk that said _this is my domain let me show you what I can do_. Ice crackling through his respiratory system, Yuuri declined his head into a slight downturn; Yurio’s smirk flooded into his cheeks. 

“They’ll come for you – for _us,_ here.” Yurio gestured around them. “I say we stay put. Sure, we could run but they’ll catch us, and we’ll only be all the more exhausted for it. So we stay here. If nothing else it will psych the bastards out. They’ll find an excuse to evacuate the street; a fake gas leak or something. Our little alley isn’t as big a battle ground as they’re used to, and that’s good. We’ll use it to our advantage.” Yurio nodded to himself, eyes glazing over slightly, and it occurred to Yuuri just how _wrong_ this was; but now was not the time to weigh up the ethics of dragging a sixteen-year-old into war in the role of commander. “I don’t think we have long. So my professional opinion would be to warm up by dropping to your knees and praying. Who knows? Maybe someone’ll listen.” 

“I’ll go get my _shashka_.” And Viktor scrambled off, grinning again. Under his breath, Yurio grumbled something like _we’d probably be safer without that thing flailing around._

At the mention of the sabre, Yuuri’s hand twitched. Yurio had bought him a sword home, as he had promised – a rusty, blunted _shashka_ that Yurio had rescued from being thrown out by the Shield – and Yuuri had been dedicating every modicum of his spare time to the blade. Or maybe _dedication_ wasn’t the right word because it implied a tethered sense of obligation. Yuuri practiced so religiously because when he had his _shashka_ in hand it felt like praying, like it was a window to divinity. A silver thread tied him to the blade and when he held it he expanded into something metaphysical. 

Instead of bounding upstairs after Viktor to get his own _shashka_ , Yuuri plunged his hand into Makkachin’s corkscrew curls. She tossed her head and caught his fingers with her tongue. 

“You know you owe me for this, right?” Yurio bit a hand in his hip, slouching against the wall and playing restlessly with his _misericorde_. “I’m gonna pass the rule of No Making Out In Front Of Yurio when this bullshit is over.” 

A smile swiped Yuuri’s face. He was reminded of that first night here, when Viktor had ruffled Yurio’s hair and the two of them had argued in that strange not-really way. _I want that_. 

“I’m not making any promises.” He held up his hands but then _hey wait maybe I should have agreed what if he changes his mind I don’t want to make him mad_ buzzed through his head because that’s who Yuuri was. “I. I mean.” 

“I get what you mean.” There was a spark to Yurio’s eyes and Yuuri exhaled in frost. It glinted off of the arcing shapes of Yurio’s dagger. “Just know that I literally know 933 different ways to kill you. Remember that the next time you decide to eat face in front of me.” 

Yuuri snorted and it felt wrong because _we’re about to do battle and I’m probably going to die_ but no, it was right because _we’re a pack._

Ten minutes later, there the three of them were, all in their respective sets of gear (Viktor had waived the Shield’s compulsory black get up for a semi-formal shirt and trousers set, teamed with the theatrical swish of his beloved trench coat because, as he’d explained to Yakov on his first day of training, if he was going to die he would do it looking good). Yurio was flicking silver flames about them with his _urumi¸_ the whip-like blades occasionally breathing past Viktor or Yuuri but not once kissing them. Not for the first time Yuuri felt pride burst through him at the sight of Yurio, feet shoulder-width apart and legs bent loosely at the knees; Yuuri didn’t know a whole lot about swordplay and he knew far less about the filigree antiquity of the _urumi,_ but even he could recognise the awful beauty to Yurio’s unquestionable skill. The edges of the silver whirlwind reflected itself in the _Destiny May Ride With Us_ buttons of the sleeveless black waistcoat Yurio had fastened himself into. If he strained his ears into magnification Yuuri could detect the breathless rustle of chainmail. Yurio made a horrific child, but he made a majestic soldier. He looked _biblical._  

Viktor, on the other hand, was swiping blindly with his _shashka._ He wasn’t as bad as he had been when Yuuri had first witnessed the disaster that was Viktor With A Sword, but his technique still left a lot to be desired. Yuuri would always think of Viktor as wonderful in every conceivable way, but even he had to admit that Viktor With A Sword was an apocalypse waiting to happen. Viktor lunged, thrusting the _shashka_ forwards and Makkachin let out a stringy _yiiiip_ as she darted out of the way, just in time. Yuuri hungered to go to him, to frame Viktor’s body with his own and have Viktor shadow his movements, to _teach._ But no. That would hurt Viktor, Yuuri thought, and he never wanted Viktor to be hurting. Viktor had the essentials down (namely, _point the sharp end at the enemy)_ and in a dire situation that would be enough. Not that the situation would become dire. Yuuri had sworn to harm no human, and he _meant_ it, but he also knew that he’d protect _his_ humans no matter the cost. He flicked his eyes to the ground, because looking at the two slayers _hurt_. No; it _burnt._

There wasn’t a whole lot Yuuri could do, so he just stretched. He folded himself in half at the waist, hands walking along the floor. When he picked up on the fact that Viktor had stopped swishing his blade around and his magnified hearing detected that his boyfriend’s heart rate had sped into a tailspin, Yuuri couldn’t help but smirk. He felt powerful in a way that only Viktor could make him feel. 

“What are you-” Yurio cut himself off with a gagging sound. “Jesus fucking Christ, Vitya, stop _ogling_ the dragon.” 

Viktor didn’t even have the good grace to deny such an accusation. Yuuri eased himself to his full height, batting his eyelashes in an innocent butterfly of movement. 

The doorbell screamed out shrilly. Yuuri arched and hissed. Viktor scrabbled to tighten his hold on his _shashka_ and wound up dropping it to the floor. Yurio scowled and turned his head in the direction of the noise. 

“The Shield,” Viktor asked. The slight wobble to his voice made Yuuri want to hold him. 

“No.” Yurio shook his head. “The Shield don’t _ring the goddamn doorbell_. Yuuri, go see who it is. If it’s not a friend, ice them.” 

Despite thinking _I’m not going to ice anyone_ , Yuuri nodded and headed out into the hallway. It made sense, after all – if the person or thing ringing the doorbell wasn’t a friend, then he’d be the only one of them liable to survive a surprise attack. Black smoke plumed in his veins and filtered into his eyes, not enough for a total blackout because _what if it’s just old Mrs Kozlov next door asking to borrow some sugar again_? His second set of teeth pricked at his gums and he pushed them down just far enough that they wouldn’t be visible should old Mrs Kozlov strike up a conversation. 

The stubby hallway had stretched itself. On the walls rested a gallery of framed photographs, mostly of a pouting or scowling or grimacing Yurio that a doting Viktor had snapped throughout the years. Now, though, a couple of newer pictures constellated on the peeling wallpaper; an unaware Yuuri stood in the kitchen conversing with a gentlemanly pigeon, Viktor posing proudly with his _shashka_ , a selfie of the two of them with their grinning faces framed by the dewy grass of the forest and their eyes glued to one another because to look away for even a second had felt like a loss, a posed photograph of the two of them sat opposite each other in an empty train carriage, their knees close enough to be touching, which Viktor had roped Yurio into taking. On a small table next to the door was a clutter of silver teaspoons, there for Yuuri to hold should he be faced with the daunting task of opening the door to a stranger because no situation should be met spoonless. _This is my home I don’t want to leave it behind just yet._  

When he got to the door he raked in a breath. And then he smiled, because he would know that scent anywhere. He threw the door open. 

“Yuuri! I’m not too late, am I? Sorry, I would have got here sooner but the stars got their lines crossed and, well, getting a bus through St Petersburg in the morning rush hour is a _nightmare._ ”

“Phichit.” Saying his best friend’s name felt like uttering a prayer. Because there Phichit Chulanont was, all five foot five inches of him, trussed up in dragon gear that he’d battered for from God knows where, smiling like a sunflower up at the sun. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well, I’ve come to fight, of course.” Phichit frowned at himself and then shook his head. A grin sprung right back to his face. “But don’t worry. You’re not going to die yet. I mean, Fate can always be rewritten – that’s why it’s such a tricky bugger – but you’re not going to die today, as best as I can tell.” 

Yuuri grabbed Phichit’s hands, his heart bounding the limits of its cage. 

“Does anyone die today? Phichit, I know it’s against the rules, but does anyone-” 

“ _Phichit Chulanont_?” There Viktor was stood, head poking out of the living room door like a rabbit sniffing around outside its hole. “What are you doing here?” And then Viktor was smiling because _of course he was._ “Are you a dragon too?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Viktor.” Phichit rolled his eyes. “I’m a prophet.” 

“What? How?” Viktor blinked and then looked between the two of them, at their joined hands, his eyes narrowing like the slight pre-emptive squeeze of a trigger before firing. “How do you know Yuuri?” 

“My mother was a prophet, my grandmother was a prophet, my great-grandfather was a prophet. It’s hereditary.” Phichit cocked an eyebrow and gave Yuuri’s hands one last squeeze before releasing them. “And I know Yuuri because our mums were friends. We’ve always been a safehouse for non-human-eating dragons, you see. We’ve been best friends since, well, since forever. When I met him Yuuri was still firing icicles every time he sneezed.” 

There the three of them stood - Phichit beaming brightly, Viktor open-mouthed, Yuuri facing the ground – and Yuuri could practically hear the cogs turning behind Viktor’s eyes. 

“The night I met Yuuri,” Viktor began, “why was he in my alleyway? I mean, if you’re his best friend and he was already in St Petersburg. Why didn’t he go to you?” 

“Oh, he did! But, well, I thought you two would make such a sweet couple so, I just sort of threw you together. Sometimes Fate needs a helping hand.” Phichit clapped his hands together once, twice, three times. “And it’s worked! You’re Instagram’s hot couple. They love you. I love you. I’ve seriously considered becoming ordained just so I can marry the two of you.” 

This time it was Yuuri who narrowed his eyes at Phichit. It felt like scratching the surface. Before any more questions could be asked, however, Yurio was stalking into the hall, waving his cell phone in the air. 

The screen read _FROM THE HAG: kitten we’re 5 mins away – mila xo_

 

* * *

 

Mila had known all along. Of course she had. Unlike her male counterparts, she was not a _total_ idiot. For starters, there was the conversation she’d had with Yuri all those months back about the creature the Chosen One was head-over-heels for – like a dragon but cold, Yuri had said. When she’d added Viktor on Instagram, all it had taken was one look at Yuuri and she had just _known._ Because Mila was not a _total_ idiot. However, because she was a partial one she’d kept it to herself. _He’s not hurting anyone and he’s softened Yuri’s edges and the way Viktor smiles when he talks about him._ She was a firm believer in true love and, having listened to Viktor harp on about his better half for roughly forty hours a week over the past five or six months, she knew that _this_ was it. And she was not about to come in between true love – not until a body count started racking up, at least. 

Above that, though, Viktor was her _friend._ So maybe he wasn’t the best slayer, and maybe if he truly _was_ the Chosen One then they were all a little bit screwed, but he was _kind._ He made time for people. If you weren’t having a good day he would go out of his way to smile at you just so you would smile back and then, hey, at least you’d smiled _once_ that day. He was easily excitable and that excitement, to Mila if none of the other elite slayers, was infectious. He was like a walking rainbow, Mila thought, and she desperately didn’t want to take away his sunlight because to do so would be to eclipse everything that made Viktor _Viktor_. She was a slayer because she wanted to save people. 

On the one occasion Viktor had come in to training without a smile – caused, of course, by Yuuri having been too sleepy on that particular morning to give him a _proper_ kiss goodbye – all it had taken was a phone call from a certain someone and there he was, bouncing off the walls again. 

It wasn’t that Mila was soft, because she _wasn’t_ , but she had no intention whatsoever of doing anything to harm either Yuri or Viktor or their bizarre little dragon. Which was why she had sent Yuri a text, a warning. She didn’t expect them to run and she knew that running would be to turn this whole thing into a terminal cancer, but _come on Yuri you’re a clever boy you’ll think of something._  

“I saw that.” 

She spun her head to the side and there he was; Georgi Popovich. For a moment she considered burning him with a glare but then, no, she tossed her head to forward, nose stuck up in the air. Georgi _wanted_ her to look at him. And so she wouldn’t. 

“You warned them.” 

“So what if I did? Are you going to rat on _me_ too?” A pause. They were drifting through St Petersburg in an exodus – Yakov at the front, a trio of slayers that Mila vaguely recognised as being from the scouting division, and then her and Georgi, a semicolon at the end. A group of people trussed up in black, carrying various archaic weaponry stalking through St Petersburg and nobody batted an eyelid. Because that’s how people are. Be strange enough and no one will see you. “Huh? Well, Georgi, are you?” 

Mila twirled her battle axe like a baton. She didn’t even need to look at it to know that it was art. Once, she’d been walking back from a hunt when a teenage boy had stopped her with a _nice cosplay but since when does Black Widow carry an axe._ Because that’s how people are. 

When Georgi made his answer clear by omission, Mila purred out a, “I didn’t think so. You’re only doing this because you’re jealous of Viktor. You’re being spiteful.” 

“Like ninety percent of the things you do aren’t done out of sheer spite.” He was trying at playfulness but, Mila could tell, there was a pitchy, serrated edge to his voice. His gloved hands were squeezing too tightly around the butt of his crossbow. _He’s scared of me. Good._ “It’s the first thing you say to everyone. _I’m the first female slayer in Russia. They told me I couldn’t so I showed them I could.”_

“If you’re not careful, Georgi, I’ll be first slayer in Russia to kill her training partner.”

  

 

* * *

 

 

This was not how Viktor had imagined adventure would feel like. When he’d been sat at his desk this time last year wearing a grey suit and typing at a grey screen with a grey phone in one hand and a grey mug of tea in the other, this had been exactly the sort of thing he’d fantasised about. Okay, so maybe he’d pictured a castle or a forest or an underground lair rather than his own humble alleyway, and he’d never factored in his sixteen-year-old charge or apparently clairvoyant friend or a dragon who had stolen both his heart and all of his spoons, but he had a sword in his hand and he was about to rain down justice with it. Adventure. This was it. A textbook definition.

So why did it feel like this? He didn’t feel full of fire or gold. He didn’t even feel _brave._ In that moment he would have thrown his sword down if only it meant he could bundle Yuuri up in his arms, take him up into their bedroom and count through the plethora of spoons in Yuuri’s hoard – because that’s what his boyfriend did when things got too much. Yes. Spoon-counting sounded _perfect_ right about then.

In short, Viktor felt afraid. 

In long, he felt terrified. This wasn’t a game, and if it was it wasn’t one he wanted to be playing. He wanted Yurio to be in school. He wanted Yuuri to be safe, and to love himself at least half as much as Viktor adored him. Hell, in that moment Viktor found that he _missed_ his tiny grey cubicle at the telemarketing firm that never was. With a snort he realised _exactly_ what he wanted; normality. He didn’t want to be the Chosen One. Not if it meant fighting his friends to stop them from killing the Love of His Life. 

Frost shivered down his spine like a wind chime and he opened his eyes. Half a stride to his left was Yuuri, bound up in leather and his hair slicked tightly back, save for two or three rebellious strands. If there was a consolation to this whole ordeal, Viktor forced himself to think, it was seeing Yuuri in leather. Half a stride to his right was Yurio, one hand turning his _misericorde_ in windmills and the other sending out ripples with his _urumi_. Half a stride beyond Yurio was Phichit, cut in draconic gear that cast him in new angles of sharpness that didn’t suit his face. He did not appear to be armed, but Viktor had long ago learnt not to trust his eyes. 

He gave his _shashka_ an experimental swipe. _I’ve got this I’ll protect him this is an adventure and I’m the hero._

 _I’m the hero._ Viktor repeated the thought to himself until it saturated him, hazed through his veins in deep swallows. _I’m the hero and heroes never lose._ _This is an adventure._

Yuuri’s wings sighed out from his shoulder blades, casting the four of them in shadow. They stretched and flexed, the paper thin skin of them glimmering like starfall. And Viktor smiled because _holy shit I’m so fucking lucky._ Looking at those wings was reading a storybook of happy memories. He felt a want that was more than a want to have those wings wrapped around him one last time, to be lost adrift in a sea of Yuuri one final time. But no. He shook his head, tightened his hand around his _shashka._ Because if he were, right at that moment, to be embraced in the nightsky stretch of Yuuri’s wings it would not be for the last time. 

In that second, Viktor made a decision. Nobody was going to die. He was the hero and heroes never lose. 

It was Yakov they saw first. He looked as though dressed for a funeral and there was no weapon in his hand. _Of course there isn’t,_ Viktor thought bitterly, _he likes to have kids do the fighting for him_. Yakov stopped about five feet in front of them, a band of five slayers forming a line behind him – Georgi and Mila, Viktor recognised, but the other three, men who were no more than boys, Viktor had never seen before. 

“It’s true then.” Yakov gestured to Yuuri, who hissed and the sound was a breeze through a thick canopy of leaves. “Your friend here, is a dragon.” 

“ _Yuuri_ is my _boyfriend,”_ Viktor snarled. He reached out and Yuuri’s hand met his without question. “He’s my partner. He just so happens to also be a dragon. And you’re _not_ going to hurt him.”

“Yakov, you should listen.” It was Phichit, and all the sunlight had evaporated from him. His face had set around his eyes and everything was caving inwards. The exclamation marks of his arms ended in fists. Viktor jutted an eyebrow, but Yakov just crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “Yuuri is _important._ ” 

“Phichit Chulanont. Why is that you always _insist_ on showing up where you’re least wanted?” 

“I’m a prophet. It’s my job to stop people like you form messing everything up.” 

“Well, I would suggest seeking new employment. I know you're thoughts on the Prophecy. You've made them abundantly clear.” Yakov turned his attention back to Viktor, the turn of his head granular. “Viktor, this doesn’t have to end in violence.”

Something inside Viktor jumped up into the light because _I’m the hero and heroes never lose._ Ice frosted over his knuckles, down his spine, and his face melted into a cool smile. Yuuri was at his side and he could do anything.

“You’re right. It doesn’t. I’m glad we see it the same way.” He moved to slice his _shashka_ into his scabbard, the movement cut off by a graze of laughter from two of the unknown slayers. They, he noticed, still had their weapons out. The realisation was a stone sinking through his stomach. “Yakov. Tell your men – and woman, hi, Mila – to stand down.” 

“I can’t. Not until the threat has been neutralised. Viktor, I.” Yakov sighed and it sounded halfway to an apology. “I meant, it doesn’t have to end in violence for _you_. You’re still new to our world, you don’t understand.” 

“What threat?” Viktor blinked and tilted his head. A soft breeze pressed against his back from the ambient sway of Yuuri’s wings. 

“The _dragon_ , Viktor. Step aside and let us show you what your training is for.” 

“ _Step aside?”_ Viktor’s voice was a volcanic spit. Even with whispers of ice coiling loosely around his wrists, everything in him burnt. And that was okay. If he was on fire, then he could make _them_ burn with him. “No. Absolutely not. He hasn’t done anything wrong. I.” Viktor fought to drag moisture into his mouth. “I love him.” It was a breath of a thing. And then he shook his head. And then his voice was as solid as a stage, a roar, “I love him and he is under _my_ protection.” His eyes clung and stuck to each slayer in turn, a little kid running for a fire escape. When Viktor spoke again, sparks carving a path across a glacier, it was a fragmented thing. “He’s good and kind. He says sorry when he treads on dogs’ feet. I. I’ve gone through all my life, thinking everything is ordinary, but then I met Yuuri and I realised that _nothing_ is ordinary because. Because _love_ exists and I love him. When I’m holding his hand,” he held up their knotted fingers and he could feel the tremble in Yuuri’s fingertips, “I feel like I’m the person I was always supposed to be. When we kiss I taste the stars and when we hug there’s nothing else outside of our arms because together, me and Yuuri, we make a universe. We. We’re _home._ So don’t you _dare_ ask me to _step aside_ like it’s nothing because he is my everything.” 

Silence. 

No. Not silence. Viktor could hear the resonating _boom_ of his heart as it banged against his ribs and the click of his bones as they shook because his emotion had turned kinetic. There was another sound – tidal, waves against the jagged outcrop of the coast. _Yuuri. He can’t breathe._ For just a moment, a grain of sand, Viktor let go of Yuuri’s hand and plunged it into his pocket. _There._ He plucked out the melon baller – the metal tarnished and the plastic handle yellowed – and pressed it against Yuuri’s palm. The dragon cupped it to his chest, curving slightly around it. One of the unknown slayers dared to snicker, and their chin was kissed by the tip of a whiplike blade. A petal of blood fluttered to the ground.

All eyes were on Yurio. The teenager was smirking, his shoulders pressed back and down, his _misericorde_ in constant motion at his side. The draping hood of his slayer gear cut off his eyes, but Viktor hoped that he could see the grateful smile on his face, the crown of pride. They were standing together. 

“Yuri,” Yakov began, hands out, and he was talking to Yurio in a way that he’d never spoken to Viktor; like they were _equals,_ or not quite but close enough. “Yura, come on. Surely you of all people, you understand, don’t you? Come and stand with your family.” 

“I already am.” Yurio flicked his _urumi_ just enough to compensate for the water in his voice. “Yakov, I’ve been observing Yuuri, the dragon, for almost a year now, and he’s not _like_ other dragons. I’m not going to give you some stupid fucking speech about home and stars, but I am going to give you my word as a dragon slayer; first of all, that Yuuri Katsuki poses no threat to the human population of St Petersburg, and second of all, if any one of you bastards hurt him your head _will_ be parting company with your neck.”

“I expect this kind of behaviour from Chulanont, but not from _you._ ” Yakov turned his attention to the side, and there was an ache in his eyes that Viktor could almost identify with. “Georgi, load your crossbow. Boys, I’m sorry about this. I know you probably don’t believe that, but I am. But it’s just the way things are.”

“ _Bullshit.”_  

The word was a flame, and it was punctuated by the clattered embers of an axe being thrown to the ground. _Mila._ Head high, leading with her nose, she strutted into the void space between the two groups. A grin tugged at Viktor’s lips and he raised a hand just enough to wave at her because _yes I always did like her._  

She slotted in between Phichit and Yurio, hands splayed at her sides. Georgi’s eyes, Viktor noticed, followed her and his features seemed to warp. Nobody else moved, save for the gentle inhale, exhale of Yuuri’s wings breathing in the groggy sunlight. Viktor let his eyes reach to the side, and there his dragon was, eyes on the ground like he was nothing, his fingerless glove-clad hands fiddling around a decrepit melon baller and Viktor didn’t think he’d ever felt so _in love._ He could feel Yuuri without touching him; when Yuuri scraped together a sideways smile just for him, he knew that Yuuri could feel it too.

“If you want to hurt him,” Viktor’s words breathed from him and, for the first time, he truly thought he sounded like a hero, “you’ll have to kill _me_ first.”

“Okay.” Georgi shrugged and held up his crossbow. He squinted his eyes, outstretched his arm, and the world ceased to turn.

There were three rapid _pfft_ sounds as bolts flew, sure and true. Viktor was aware of three things; Yakov screeching out _Georgi no_ , a child crying, and the inescapable thought of _shit I’m going to die._

And then, everything went black. 

And then the blackness quivered, shook, something dark and viscous dribbling through it. 

Viktor tried to open his eyes, only to realise that they were already open. He ran his hands over his body, mapping with his fingers, and was only vaguely relieved to find that he was very much intact. The air tasted coppery on his tongue, hard and cold and red. The ground beneath his feet was slippery. 

“ _Yuuri!”_ But it wasn’t Viktor yelling, it was Yurio, and why was Yurio crying? 

The darkness fell away from Viktor and then. 

And then he realised exactly what the darkness was. _Yuuri. He shielded me with his wings._  

For just a split second, everything was at peace. Yuuri was stood, teetering, placing one foot down and then lifting it up again, figuring out how his legs worked, but then Viktor caught his eyes. Yuuri _smiled_. In his left hand was a jagged piece of yellowed plastic; in his right hand was a hollow metal semi-sphere.  

“I saved you.” Yuuri’s voice was a flower wilting, and that was all it took for the spell to break. His legs went boneless and Viktor was there, just in time, to fasten his arms around his dragon, to lower him to the ground. He couldn’t understand what was going on because how could he understand anything when Yuuri had gone so fucking pale? “Vitya? Did I do it? Are you okay?” 

“Shush. Shush, now, _Drakonchik_.” Viktor dropped to his knees and eased Yuuri’s head into his lap. He curved his body over the dragon, a cave of treasure. His _shashka_ was on the floor but he couldn’t remember dropping it. “You did it. Okay? You’re amazing and you did it. I’m okay. I’m alright.” 

The world around them juddered to life. A flick of silver slit forward and slashed the string of Georgi’s crossbow. For his part, Georgi was blinking at the scene like he was reading foreign words in his own handwriting. He turned to Yakov only to be met with stone. 

Yurio paced a tightrope between the divide and he was storm. He cut lines with his  _urumi_ that none of the slayers dared to cross. He was a death sentence. 

Viktor wasn’t sure why, but when Phichit and Mila skidded over to him, Mila staying on her feet and surveying the damage, Phichit thudding to his knees and pressing his hands to his wings, Viktor screamed at them to _stay the fuck away from him._ Or, at least, he thought he did. He couldn’t be sure because he couldn’t hear anything over Yuuri’s breathless whimpering. Viktor traced his thumb loosely over Yuuri’s bottom lip and it was too _dry._

“Viktor. Viktor, _hey_.” Phichit snapped his fingers and focus blurred back to Viktor. “Look at me.” Viktor kept his eyes on Yuuri’s clear quartz irises because _what if_. “He’s going to be okay. I promise. He’s not supposed to die today. I need you to do something for me, Viktor, okay? Do you think you can do something for me? I need you to help me, so I can help Yuuri.” 

Viktor nodded. Tearing his eyes from Yuuri’s face, which was scrunched up in unbridled agony, was the hardest thing Viktor had ever had to do. Phichit’s smile was too soft. 

“I need you to keep a tight hold of him, okay? You see where the crossbow bolts went in?” Phichit pointed and Viktor followed his direction; on the left wing were two shots of silver, punching through the thin skin in bursts of crimson, one up high, the other down low but both close to the centre, and on the right wing there was one slanting through at an odd angle. None of them had seemed to pass through a joint, which Viktor hoped was a good thing. “They’re solid metal. On one end is the arrow, on the other is the fletching – you know, the feathery bit? So I’m going to have to pull them back through the wing. I can’t just snap them. It’s. It’s really going to hurt, but I need you to keep Yuuri as calm as you can for me, okay?”

Viktor nodded because Yuuri needed him and Viktor was the hero but what kind of hero was he if he couldn’t even protect his most precious person? The fluid in his veins turned to lead.

Phichit hugged his hand around the shaft of the first bolt – it was the one on the right wing, low down and right on the edge. He could feel blood seeping into his skin like ice melting against a fevered forehead. At the slightest amount of pressure, Yuuri screamed and it was a ripping, tearing, tectonic shift of a sound. It would have been audible to the people on the next street over, Phichit thought, but none of them would react to the noise. Because that’s how people are. 

But Yuuri did more than just scream. A sheet of ice shot from him, glazing the cobblestones under his back in the sharpest whisper of blue Phichit had ever seen. Blood streaked it, obscuring its purity. Phichit raised his eyes and, _yes_ , just as he’d hoped; Yakov was watching, his faced wiped gapingly blank. Phichit curved himself into a serene smile. 

“Do you see what you’ve done?” 

“I. I didn’t.” Yakov shook his head. “I didn’t know.” The old man swallowed and it was a sandpaper sound. "He sacrificed himself, for a  _human._ It doesn't make sense."

“ _Ice will fight fire._ Yeah, you're listening now.” Phichit stroked a finger soothingly along the sharp ridge of Yuuri’s wing. _I’m so sorry Yuuri but if I had just told him he would never have believed me it had to happen like this please forgive me._ He flicked his eyes to Viktor, who looked to be so absorbed in babbling soft promises to Yuuri as to be totally unaware of the outside world. _Good._ “Think, Yakov, of what the St Petersburg Shield of Dragon Slayers could achieve with a creature like Yuuri Katsuki on their side.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. I'm trying to create a sort of parallel between Yurio and Viktor's key wants. Viktor wants adventure, but Yurio is sort of the opposite; he's starting to hunger for 'normality'. I guess it's sort of a the-grass-is-always-greener sort of thing, and I think it's been bought on by seeing Viktor and Yuuri so happy together. Being a slayer from such a young age has certainly taken a toll on Yurio and, although he'd never admit it, he wants to be in an environment where everything isn't resting on him - he wants to be able to rest. 
> 
> 2\. This chapter represents a major shift in Yurio's alignment/loyalty. When he thinks something might be wrong with Yakov he doesn't panic; but when he knows that Yuuri is under threat, he is scared to the point of tears. He doesn't even think about which side to pick. This is partially because Yuuri=happy Vitya, but it's mainly because Yurio has come to see Yuuri as an extension of their family. He loves the dragon, nowhere near as much as he loves Viktor, but Yuuri has understood him and been kind to him in a way that a lot of people haven't, all whilst (mostly) treating Yurio like the adult he sees himself as. As much as he might hate it, Yurio has opened himself up to Yuuri.
> 
> 3\. Why have you made Georgi the Bad Guy™? I haven't. There are two key reasons as to why Georgi has done what he did. The first is that, as in the anime, he doesn't want to be in Viktor's shadow anymore and is thus eager to show Yakov that he is the top slayer the Shield has to offer. The second is that he's only sticking to the rules. He is being Lawful Good. If Yurio hadn't already established a special bond with Yuuri, do you really think he would have reacted any differently? Trust me. The really Bad Guy™ hasn't even flexed their wings yet.
> 
> 4\. The scene where Yuuri is walking to the front door. The photo of him and Viktor on the train is a nod to be the one from the closing credits. The spoons on the table are meant to reflect how he's become a part of Viktor and Yurio's everyday life; he is as much a part of their home as they are - the same can also be said for the photos of himself. Also, the only old photos on the wall are of Yurio - none of Viktor. He only saw himself, consciously or not, as important enough to make the wall after meeting Yuuri. Because Yuuri makes the ordinary extraordinary.
> 
> 5\. Spoiler: Phichit had more of a reason to dump Yuuri on Viktor than 'I thought they would make a cute couple'. He knows _exactly_ what he's doing.
> 
> 6\. Viktor is starting to realise that this whole adventure malarkey might not be all it's cracked up to be. He had pictured saving damsels in distress, wiping out clear-cut bad guys, being a textbook hero - but it's not like that and he's not sure how to cope with the responsibility of it. He just wants his family to feel safe and happy and loved. Don't worry; Viktor will be fantasising about adventure again by the end of next chapter.
> 
> 7\. Yakov, even though he's not too hot at showing it, cares deeply for his slayers and none moreso than Yurio. He raised Yurio from when he was a toddler up until the age of eleven, so Yakov sees himself as a sort of father figure to Yurio. He's said it before - he tried to give Yurio the best life he could. Perhaps part of the reason that he trained Yurio so hard and never really treated him as a child was because he wanted him so badly to succeed (AKA not die a horrible fiery death), although this rigidity and lack of childhood has led to resentment. He's a great teacher/commander, but he's not exactly the nurturing type.
> 
> 8\. Think about whereabouts the crossbow bolts landed. Georgi wasn't shooting to kill. 
> 
> 9\. Seeing ice come from Yuuri doesn't just effect Yakov so deeply because of the Prophecy. Let me just say this: he was young once, and haven't any of you wondered where Lilia is?  
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading this chapter, I hope you enjoyed it, and thank so, so much to those of you who have commented - it really means a lot! 
> 
>  
> 
> A playlist for Phichit:  
> \- Radioactive by Imagine Dragons  
> \- My Best Friend by Weezer  
> \- Beauty and the Beast by Ariana Grande and John Legend  
> \- Maya the Psychic by Gerard way  
> \- New Tomorrow by A Friend in London  
> \- Nine in the Afternoon by Panic! At The Disco
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter: Viktor takes the task of nursing Yuuri back to health very seriously, Phichit spills prophecy tea with Yakov, Minami gets on the wrong side of Viktor, Yurio wants a cat, and there's something very odd about Yuuri's wings (AKA, fluff filler chapter before Otabek comes in and fucks shit up).


	8. Yuuri and His Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. I honestly, _honestly_ intended for this chapter to be about half the length it is. This was supposed to be the fun, short chapter. Now it's just the fun chapter. At least, I hope it is.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)

 

It made sense. Viktor didn’t like it, he wanted Yuuri at _home,_ where he could be constantly tucked up under Viktor’s arm. He wanted Yuuri no more than a glance away, and he knew that Yurio wanted that too – over the past three days both dragon slayers had given up on attempting any semblance of sleep. Every time Viktor shut his eyes all he could see was blood-streaked ice reaching across cobblestones like a shadow, bleached irises, a night sky punctuated by three gaping blackholes. Every time he tried to sleep his mind decided to replay the slithered whisper of metallic flight, the blood-sound of tearing, and the hellfire scream of his most precious treasure shattering  – all in high definition, clear as glass through skin. The last time Viktor had made a conscious effort to sleep had been the night after his adventure had ceased to be an adventure. His bed had been too empty without Yuuri in it, vacuous, and as soon as his head hit the pillow he’d been met with visions of blood and torn wings. So he’d gone downstairs, only to be greeted by Yurio sat cross-legged on the sofa, holding out an iPod and a set of headphones to him. _If you play it loud enough sometimes you can sleep through the dreams._ Just when Viktor had thought he couldn’t possibly despise the Shield anymore, his hatred broke through the barrier and into a new plane of loathing. 

But back to the point. Viktor wanted Yuuri to be at home. It was too warm without him there. He got it, though. It made sense. 

It made sense for Yuuri to be at Phichit’s because, first of all, Phichit was the only one of them apparently qualified to tend to Yuuri’s healing wings. Second of all, being on the outskirts of St Petersburg rather than at its epicentre, Yuuri was closer to open, organic spaces – namely, the forest – where he could let the sunlight get to his wounds. Third of all, as Phichit had said, _dragons pay attention when Shields wave their swords around he needs to lay low for a while and you need to act like everything is normal._

Phichit was running the place like a hospital. Everyone who passed through the front door had to douse themselves in hand sanitiser, which was what Viktor was currently doing. Phichit had sent out a group message to Viktor, Yurio and Mila, a rota of visiting hours. Some deep-down, _he’s mine_ , part of Viktor half suspected Phichit of trying to hog Yuuri to himself but no, of course he wasn’t. 

It was strange, Viktor thought as he rubbed the stinging gloop of Phichit’s strawberry-scented hand sanitizer into the stories scrawled on his palms, the way it was wet but it left his hands feeling as dry as sandpaper. 

“Did you get the things I asked for?” Phichit popped the lid back on his Holy Grail of hygiene, and Viktor felt very much as though his ability to rub it in was being judged. 

“Of course.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder to the great, bulging rucksack fastened to his back. “And a few extras.”

“Nothing too exciting, I hope. He’s still recovering. He needs to _rest_. Wings are the most sensitive part of a dragon’s anatomy, you know, and healing them is no small feat. Although, damn, I’m _good_.” Phichit snapped his wrist up to his face, eyes crawling over the watch he’d fastened there, too tight. Looking at the hammocks pulling down at the skin under the younger man’s eyes, Viktor realised that Phichit had probably been having similar difficulties to himself and Yurio. His expression softened. “I need to change his dressings.” 

“I’ll do it.” Viktor’s voice was a buttery bob of a thing, and he was trying to make it sound like a suggestion rather than a demand. “I’ve watched you do it enough times. You look like you could use a rest.”

Viktor pulled his face into a look that was a hybrid he’d learnt from Yuuri (head tilted at a melting angle, lips eased into a slight pout) and Yurio (empty, aching eyes so void of compassion as to breed it). And then he threw in something from Mila – the butterfly batting of eyelashes. All undeniable characteristics melded together to make the Optimus Prime of puppy-dog faces. 

“Okay,” Phichit sighed. The prophet wiped his face with his hands and, briefly, Viktor was reminded of Yurio. The man was a sunbeam, there was no denying that, but now everything about him felt so heavy. _He’s just tired. We all are._ “He’s in the spare room. Everything you need is up there. Give me a shout if there’s anything wrong.” The younger man smiled and, although Viktor could tell that it was an effort, it was an earnest lift of a thing. Finding a seam of gold in a coal mine. It was impossible for Viktor to not smile back. “You’re the best thing to ever happen to Yuuri, y’know. He. He’s always been so _shy._ But you. He’s starting to love himself because _you_ love him. I’ve never seen him be so… So much like himself. I’ve never seen him smile so much.” Phichit wet his lip. A breath. “You’re going to break his heart.” 

“No. No, I’m not. I wouldn’t ever. I’d _die_ first.” Viktor could feel the burn of his words branding into the back of his throat. 

“I’ve seen it.” Phichit was still smiling, but it was a watery ripple of a thing. “It’ll be okay.” He patted Viktor’s arm but Viktor didn’t feel it. “Anyway. There’s a dragon upstairs who needs his wings tending to.” 

The stairs murmured their secrets as Viktor climbed them. His bones felt too heavy and each step bit into his joints because he hadn’t slept properly in _three days_ and what little sleep he had managed to scrape together was from the time he spent with Yuuri, curled up at odd angles to avoid causing further irritation to the dragon’s wounds. His muscles felt too light, not enough, stringy. If his muscles were clouds then his bones were lead linings.

Phichit’s house smelt of the outside – of pine and breeze and running water – but Viktor had never felt so hemmed in. _You’re going to break his heart._ No. Viktor shook his head. Of course he wasn’t going to. Phichit was fiercely protective over Yuuri – even Viktor, who was somewhat socially obtuse, could see that – and this was a test. Or, if it wasn’t a test, then it was a mistake; Phichit had looked _exhausted_ , and given that he had the added stress of being in charge of healing Yuuri’s wings on top of the lack of sleep that seemed to be plaguing everyone Viktor knew, misreading the stars or whatever it was Phichit did was perfectly excusable. To be expected, even. Or if it wasn’t a test and it wasn't a mistake, then, Viktor reasoned, it was one of those instances where Fate could be changed. Phichit had said so himself, just how mercurial those stars could be. 

And so it was that, by the time Viktor had reached the door to the spare room, he was smiling again. Because everything was fine. No hearts were going to be broken and he was a heart beat away from _his_ Yuuri. He was the hero and heroes never lose. 

He knocked the peak of one knuckle to the raw, mottled wood of the door. The first response he got was an excited _yipyipyip._ Warmth – no, _ice_ flooded his veins because _here isn’t home but home is here._  

“Come,” there was a heaved breath, a holey, ragged thing, like running through brambles. Viktor’s smile freeze-dried in place. “Come in.” 

Viktor sighed through the door, his heart too heavy in his chest. The room was chilly, fingerprints of frost dotted the windows, but it was nowhere near the arctic temperatures he’d grown to expect from being near Yuuri. Some people get butterflies; Viktor Nikiforov got frostbite. 

“Hey there, _Drakonchik_.” Viktor kept his voice low, the way people talk in museums or cathedrals. Because there Yuuri was, laid out on his back, his face a moon amongst the nightsky expanse of his wings. Viktor had to hand it to Phichit – the set up of the room was genius; bed right at the centre, giving Yuuri just enough room either side to lay with his wings fully extended, supported by a complexly gentle pulley system. Viktor wasn’t sure how many prophets were out there roaming the world, but he was immensely glad that Phichit was theirs. He gave Yuuri a little wave. “How are you feeling?” 

It was painful, watching Yuuri arrange himself into a smile. Viktor didn’t stop him, and he thought it a selfishness. He did, however, step in when Yuuri tried to sit himself up. Viktor flurried forwards, all hands and _here let me help you no you need to lay down._ At the attention, at the fuss, at Viktor’s fingertips tapping out a soft lullaby against his cheeks, Yuuri’s smile slipped into something more genuine. At least today, Viktor thought, Yuuri was awake and with it enough to recognise that he had company. 

Satisfied that Yuuri was now going to stay laid down and was thus at no immediate risk of harm, Viktor dropped to a perch on the edge of the bed. He let the rucksack slip off his back and the release felt like breathing again but that didn’t matter; the only thing Viktor was truly aware of was the way Yuuri was looking up at him, his eyes a smoky amethystine cloud of hazelnut brown, the way dreamers look up at the stars. In that moment, Viktor refreshed a silent promise he’d been making and re-making every hour since Yuuri had fallen in the alleyway; _I’ll never let anything hurt you again, Drakonchik. You are too precious._

A thin thread of ice trailed around his wrist, reminding him to smile. 

“Are you feeling okay?” As he spoke, Viktor slipped a hand into Yuuri’s hair. Makkachin was a breathing blanket at the end of the bed. Somehow, Yuuri made the act of nodding look like a monumental challenge. “You don’t have to say you are if you aren’t.” 

“I’m okay, Vitya.” Yuuri’s voice was as soft as a halo and it floated over Viktor. He ducked down to press a kiss to Yuuri’s forehead, like he couldn’t help it, and Yuuri nearly went cross-eyed trying to follow the movement. When he pulled back, Viktor noticed that there was a small, silver teaspoon resting in the cradle of Yuuri’s left hand, and affection rippled through him in gold. “What about you? How are things at home?” 

“I’m fine.” Because of course he was. “Me and Yurio haven’t managed to blow the house up _quite_ yet, so don’t you worry about that.” He played his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, fiddling a few strands into a loose plait. “Yurio told me to give you his love.” 

“Did he?” Yuuri jutted an eyebrow. 

“Well, no. His exact words were,” Viktor dropped his voice into a graze and his face into a scowl, “ _tell the Jabberwocky to hurry the fuck up and get better so I don’t have to deal with your stupid moping, moron._ ” A starfall of laughter trickled from Yuuri and filtered through into Viktor as sunlight. “So that’s basically the same thing. He wanted to come with me today, but I.” _I told him to try to get some rest because his eye bags had bags and seeing the state of him would have just made you worry._ “I thought it would be nice to have you to myself.” Viktor shook his head; now was not the time for heaviness. He hooked his fingers loosely around Yuuri’s and the soft suggestion of a squeeze that he got in return made his eyes feel absurdly tight. “Oh! I’ve got something for you. Well, a few somethings, actually.”

Viktor heaved his rucksack into his lap. First of all, he pulled out a cluster of three spoons – long, elegant sundae spoons, the kind that are also straws, in plastic the colour of boiled sweets – tied together with a thick piece of salmon pink ribbon. He heard Yuuri make a high noise of delighted interest, a twinkle of a sound, and he handed the bouquet straight over. Viktor watched as Yuuri washed his fingers over the brightly-coloured spoons, as he breathed each one in, popped the lemony-yellow one in his mouth. It was the closest to alive Yuuri had been since being, well, since being shot. 

“Thank you, Vitya. _Thank you_. I. You, you really don’t have to keep spoiling me like this.” Yuuri gestured to his window sill, which was pocked with vases and glasses in which Phichit had put the various ‘bouquets’ Viktor had bought for the Love of His Life (plus one from Mila, who had taken an earnest shine to Yuuri because of course she had, _I knew she was a good egg)_. “I love you.” 

“Not as much as I love you. Now,” Viktor took a shoebox, pinpricked with airholes, out of his bag, “open up, teeth out.” 

“I can feed myself. You. I. You don’t have to watch _that_.” A blush scratched against Yuuri’s cheeks and Viktor leant down to kiss it off; he didn’t want Yuuri to be ashamed of any part of himself, and it hurt Viktor deeply, right down into his lungs, that he was. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Shush. It isn’t. It’s kind of hot, actually.” 

_Bingo._ Yuuri’s mouth dropped open, a mishmash of razor-blade teeth slicing up through his gums. Grinning, Viktor ruffled the dragon’s hair – it was getting long, he thought, thick black feathering down to the base of Yuuri’s neck. He liked it. 

“There’s a good boy.” And, okay, so maybe Viktor was enjoying this a little bit too much. He opened the shoebox to the sound of buttercup chirping; within the cardboard boundaries was a huddle of six chicks, each resembling the wobbly scribble of a sunshine in the corner of a toddler’s drawing. He plucked one up and, without even a shudder of remorse, dangled it over Yuuri’s mouth. “Open wide.” 

And so Viktor fed Yuuri the chicks, one by one, cheering him on with every mouthful, always keeping a hand in his dragon’s hair. In his head, he pictured the way his grandmother had spoon-fed him soup as a child whenever he’d gotten sick, and projected the image onto himself. 

As he listened to the symphonic _crunch_ of the last chick in Yuuri’s mouth, the younger man’s powerful jaw no match for the milky bones of the flimsy creature, Viktor turned back to his rucksack. He reached in and frowned, _where is it I’m sure I put it in here ah there it is._ A framed photograph of Yurio’s sixteenth birthday, taken from his Instagram; the three of them crowded around together, Viktor beaming so brightly that his mouth had folded into a heart-shape just to accommodate it, Yuuri’s face dusted with his shy but no less lovely smile, the corners of Yurio’s lips pressing lightly upwards into his cheeks. A photograph of _home_. 

His eyes were tugged lightly by the sleeve at the soft snuffle of a snore. It was an opal of a sound. Viktor felt his insides melt at what he saw; Yuuri’s head tilted to the side, a smudge of blood on his chin, eyes shut, asleep, _at peace._ He licked his thumb and gently circled it over the blood until it was nothing more than a strawberry jam shadow. _Holy shit he is so adorable how did I get so lucky all I want to do is sit here and look at him and did I mention how adorable he is._

And then, to top it all off, in his sleep, Yuuri _purred._

  

* * *

 

“Mr Chulanont, you have my full attention.” 

Phichit grinned as he dropped down into the chair. It was one of those chairs that holds you like an uncomfortably long hug from an obscure relative, all puffy leather and rigid lines. The last time Phichit had sat in this chair he had been wearing silver buttons. No, he was not a stranger to Yakov’s office; the way he kept the door locked at all times, the vast slab of his desk, the James Bond villain chairs, the ornate silver photo frame that was always facing inwards on his desk. It still smelt the same – disinfectant disguising itself as manufactured lemon, the chocolate-leather scrape of Yakov’s cologne, the crystallised breath of petrol that permeated every jewel in St Petersburg’s crown. It was an effort for Phichit to not think _I belong here._ Because he did. It was in his blood.

A pause stretched its claws out between them, and Phichit basked in it. He was going to enjoy this. 

In front of him on the desk, he placed a neat, navy leather briefcase. The catches glinted gold in the scouring light of the office. The briefcase was empty, but seeing as he was playing the part of mediator it felt proper that he have one. He flicked his eyes up and caught Yakov’s. Yakov looked away first. 

“How is the dragon doing?” 

“Which dragon would that be?” Phichit kept his voice light, but he knew that Yakov was smarter than that. 

“Nikiforov’s pet.” The old dragon slayer plucked up a crystal cut glass and drank until its teddy bear-brown liquid had halved. “Yuuri.” 

“Oh, _Yuuri!_ ” He slapped his hand on the desk. “Well, other than the _three gaping great holes in his wings_ , he’s doing great.” Phichit dropped the smile and leant forwards in his chair, planting his elbows sharply against the desk. “He’ll heal. Eventually. You can kiss Viktor Nikiforov goodbye until he does.”

Yakov drained the remainder of his glass and Phichit watched the sharp-slow _bob_ of the swallow. The skin of Yakov’s neck was damp and _good he should be nervous._ Phichit was not a wrathful person, nor was he a cruel one, but he had strong morals and he would stick to them. But it was more than that. Yuuri was his best friend, his brother in all the ways that mattered, and it was, directly or indirectly, this man’s fault that Yuuri was hurting. For all of his sunflower softness, Phichit Chulanont could be a razor blade when it came to his friends. 

When Yakov slammed the empty glass down against the desk, Phichit’s smile slunk into a purr of a thing. 

“But first things first,” Phichit threw himself back into his chair, playing at ease, “you said I have your full attention.” 

“I’m not playing games here, Phichit.” 

“Good. Neither am I.” He sunk into something incongruously serious. His face was made for smiles; it was not cut for business. “I want to discuss the Prophecy with you.” 

Yakov heaved himself to his feet, making a production of the movement, and the screwed-up mask of struggle on his face very nearly appealed to Phichit’s better nature. But no. He was here in a professional capacity, and his profession required him to be merciless.

He watched as the dragon slayer who was nothing more than a tired old man plodded to the corner of the room, glass in hand, where a sepia globe stood in a wooden cradle. It was a museum piece, and Phichit couldn’t quite tell if its purpose was ornamental or practical or both. The countries spilled onto the skin of the globe, shaded in based on the political allegiances of each Shield organisation. The seven seas were littered with serpents because, back when this had been produced, they had been. 

Yakov placed his crystal cut glass on the mahogany rim of the cradle, freeing up his hands to hug around the top semi-sphere of the globe with fingers in Russia, the UK, France, Alaska, Greenland. He gave a squeeze and a tug and then, _pop_ , the entire Northern Hemisphere came off in his hands to reveal an antiquarian sort of mini bar – two more crystal cut glasses, a bottle of whiskey that looked like a relic, a bottle of vodka that resembled the neck of a swan, and a thick, squat bottle of gin. Yakov plucked up the first bottle, glugged a gush of it into his glass, and then replaced the Northern Hemisphere. Phichit couldn’t help it – his lips quirked at the corners. 

“Right.” Yakov took a long drink as he wound his way back to his desk, but he did not sit down. “I’m all ears. You have my _undivided_ attention.” 

“Good.” Phichit nodded to himself, drew in a deep breath. In hindsight, he probably should have used his briefcase for something useful, like notes or a flowchart. _Where’s a powerpoint presentation when you need one?_ “We agree on some things. _The City of the Saint_ , for example, is St Petersburg. And the fire, that’s definitely a dragon or dragons.” He paused, and Yakov nodded. The older man creaked down into his chair. “The part I remember, from the last time we discussed it, that our views deviate on, is the whole Chosen _One_ thing.” 

“You think that there are two.” 

“No, actually. I’ve changed my mind.” At the elastic outward explosion of Yakov’s eyes, Phichit smiled. “I think they’re more like Chosen Halves. One is useless without the other.” The lines of Yakov’s face rewrote themselves into a stern wall of a scowl. His mouth sunk open, but Phichit sliced his hand up into the air. “Viktor didn’t exactly _greet the sword like an old friend_ , did he?” 

“He…” Yakov knocked back the last of his drink. “His technique leaves a lot to be desired, but his heart is in the right place. He tries hard.” 

“That’s because he’s not the one who’s supposed to be greeting the sword. No – he is. But.” Phichit rubbed his face clean of lines with his hands, teasing his fingers up through his hair. “I think that _he will greet the sword like an old friend_ is a mistranslation. It’s not supposed to say _sword._ What it really means is _weapon._ ” 

“Impossible. Two separate prophets came up with the same thing. _He will greet the sword like an old friend._ They wouldn’t _both_ get it wrong.” 

“And they didn’t!” Phichit dashed his hand against the table, his eyes brimming with light. “One was referring to Viktor. The other, was referring to Yuuri.” 

Yakov looked down into his glass, swirling the amber-honey dregs around the base, racing two rivulets. He heaved out a sigh, and Phichit’s smile bloomed up into his cheeks. _He’s listening._ The bulbous ticking of the grandfather clock seemed to hush in on itself. 

“Yuuri can’t be the Chosen One-” 

“Chosen _Half._ ” 

“Chosen Half, then. He’s a dragon.” 

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed.” At the granite glare he received in response, Phichit settled into something more serious. “The fact that he’s a dragon doesn’t change anything. Actually, if anything, it adds weight to my theory. So, if the first _he will greet blah blah blah_ is talking about a _weapon_ rather than a _sword_ – then that weapon _is_ Yuuri.” 

“I’ve either had far too much to drink or nowhere near enough.” 

“No, Yakov, listen to me. You promised you’d listen.” There was a heart beat of a pause before Yakov, eyes mournfully on his empty glass, nodded just the once. When he spoke again, the serrated edge of panic that had been undercutting Phichit’s voice had melted away. “You saw, back in that alleyway. You saw that Yuuri is no _normal_ dragon.” Another pause and another nod, this time shakier, and Phichit was sure there was a wet sort of weight to Yakov’s breathing. “I _know_ , that you know, Yakov, just how powerful a dragon like Yuuri could be. And Viktor is the only person who can wield him, so to speak. You need Viktor to unlock Yuuri.” There was a pause, but this time there was no nod because one was not needed. “You know how this has to end.” 

“The same way it always does. In blood and fire.” 

“And ice.” 

Yakov raised his empty glass as though performing a phantom toast, “and ice.” 

“Just like,” Phichit wet his lip, unsure if he was being unnecessarily cruel, but no, he need to seal the deal, “Lilia Baranovskaya.” 

Phichit pulled himself to his full height, the arms of his chair framing him in pillowy shadow. Yakov, on the other hand, sunk back in his, chin touching down to his collar. When he raised his gaze, it wasn’t to look at Phichit – it was to the photo frame on his desk. 

When Yakov reached out his hand, Phichit half though it was to him, to have a hand to hold, but no, of course not – it was to trace a fingertip in a round across the glass rink of the frame. It was all Phichit could do to look away.

“How,” Yakov’s voice was a graze so fresh that it had yet to start bleeding. “How did you know?” 

“I’m practically omniscient, Yakov.” 

The older man nodded once, twice, three times, a look on his face that read _fair enough_. Again, Yakov traversed the distance between his desk and the globe that wasn’t a globe like a chain ferry. Two refills later, he replaced the Northern Hemisphere. Phichit suddenly found himself feeling very thirsty but, naturally, Yakov didn’t offer him a drink. The chair groaned as Phichit fidgeted. 

“Something big is coming.” It wasn’t a question so Phichit didn’t offer an answer. “Yes, I know that much. Are we thinking the apocalypse?” 

“Come on now, Yakov. You can’t expect me to give you _all_  of my cards.” 

“And that means,” the Russian drawled dryly, a breathy hint of laughter playing on the back of his throat, “that you have no idea.” He shook his head. “So something big is coming, and my elite team has whittled itself down to one solitary, disgraced member who can’t be left alone with a sword lest he purposefully impale himself on it.” 

“And that’s why I’m here.” Phichit cleared his throat and tapped his hand against his briefcase, because it felt like the right thing to do. “I’m here to represent Mila Babicheva, Yuri ‘Yurio’ Plisetsky, Viktor Nikiforov _and_ Yuuri Katsuki.” 

Phichit waited for Yakov to give him a slow, wandering, well-go-on-then kind of nod. When he got it, he eased himself to his feet and started pacing, because that’s what the lawyers on TV did. If he had been wearing a tie, he would have loosened it. 

“You need them. You need Viktor and Yuuri because they are the Chosen One – or, individually, the Chosen Halves.” 

“You’re assuming I agree with your interpretation.” 

“Which you do, because if you don’t agree to take my word as gospel then you’re getting _nothing._ Understood?” 

Yakov ducked his face back down into his glass, which Phichit chose to take as a nod. He resumed his pacing. 

“So, you need Viktor and Yuuri. You need Mila because she’s one of the greatest slayers to ever grace this institution. And you need Yurio because – well. I’m not giving away _all_ of my cards.” Yakov’s eyebrow sprung up like a fish hook. _Time to reel him in_. “But we need you. You’re a good leader and strategist, Yakov. They need you to train them. They need your facilities. They want in. You want them in. But we figure that you need them more than they need you. So, we have a few… demands.” 

“I’m listening.” Yakov’s voice was the creaking spine of an overread book. 

“Number one; no repercussions for anyone involved in the events that took place last month. This includes Georgi Popovich.” Yakov waved his hand in agreement. “Number two; Yuuri, the dragon, will get to train with the slayers. Pair training would benefit everyone greatly in the field of combat – it’ll expose draconic weaknesses as well as increase teamwork. Which brings me to number three; I’m keeping my feelers out for dragons similarly inclined to Yuuri Katsuki. When I find them, the Shield will welcome them with open arms because, when fire and death starts raining down upon us, sympathetic dragons might just be the only hope we have left. Number four; all battle plans will be put to a democratic vote as a, let’s say, _moral safeguard._ You don’t just kill dragons anymore, Yakov.” 

“No.” Yakov threw back one final mouthful of whiskey. Phichit stopped pacing, burning his gaze onto the older man because _please this has to work or else Yuuri getting hurt was all for nothing._ “Apparently I train them too.” A pause. “Mr Chulanont. Phichit, I. I would like to offer you your former position-” 

“No. I’m not one of your toy soldiers.” Phichit’s face lit up, and he was a sunflower once more. “But thank you. Apology accepted.” 

  

* * *

 

Over the past two and a half months, Viktor had managed to settle into a routine. His dreams were still ominous hallways shadowed by stalking figures and streaked with feathered metal; were still gaping mouths stretched open like wounds into scratched-record screams. But, at least, he was sleeping again. His routine went thus; wake up from aforementioned dream somewhere adrift between the sticky continents of Night and Morning, go downstairs to get a glass of water, throw a blanket over Yurio (who had taken to staying up in the living room, watching the television until he simply crashed out), lay in bed for another three or four hours, go to practice (which had resumed in earnest over the past fortnight, and, hey, he was getting _really_ good with his _shashka_ – even _Georgi_ had said so), stop by Phichit’s to visit Yuuri for a few hours, go home, force himself to sleep – and repeat. Routines were good. 

Today, however, he had broken his routine. He had been doing so well with trying to combine the use of his _shashka_ with an evasive tumbling technique Mila had mastered that Yakov had decided to let him leave early. So, of course, he was jogging through the streets of St Petersburg, scabbard bouncing against his hip. In one hand, he clutched a ceramic Chinese soup spoon, decorated with a stunningly intricate pattern of swirls. He had gone out for lunch with the other elite slayers – even Georgi, whose eyes had widened in such a way at being invited that Viktor decided to make it his business to invite him along to such things more often – and, well, when he’d been given such a spoon to eat with, he knew immediately what he had to do with it. So, with Mila being his willing spoon mule, he’d slipped it into her handbag and now there he was; strolling merrily down the street, Chinese soup spoon in hand and sword at his side, feeling every inch the hero.

Everything was looking up. He was training again. He was sleeping again. And, just the day before, Phichit had said that Yuuri would be able to come home by the end of the week. Yes. Things were looking up, looking more like the adventure Viktor had signed up for – new friends, dragons, swords, epic romance. 

When Phichit opened the front door to Viktor, Viktor’s suspicions were only confirmed because the prophet’s eyes were sparkling and light, empty in a good kind of way – airy. Phichit sucked his lips in, like an inverse kiss, and then spread them out again in a bright, playful smile as he thrust the small bottle of hand sanitizer out to Viktor. 

“Viktor! You’re early.” Viktor nodded. “And you’ve bought a spoon. Good. Great. Yuuri might be a little tired, though.” 

“Tired?” Viktor’s heart stopped with worry, and then started again, beating in overdrive. “Why? What’s wrong? Has something happened? Is he okay?” 

“He’s fine, really, Viktor.” Phichit laughed, a flower petal flutter of a sound, and Viktor let himself relax slightly. The thought _Phichit is laughing_ was organically and inextricably linked to the thought _Yuuri’s okay._ “I just meant that he’s already got a visitor. They’re upstairs,” Phichit paused for dramatic effect, giving a waggle of his eyebrows so slight that Viktor half thought he’d imagined it, “in Yuuri's bedroom.” 

“Oh. Well, that’s okay. I can go join them.” He ran his thumb around the deep bowl of the soup spoon and, in that moment, he could really see the appeal. And then, suddenly, he stopped. “Hang on a second. Who is Yuuri with? He doesn’t have any other friends.” 

“Yes, he does.” Phichit rolled his eyes, hard. “It’s a dragon friend. From his old pack.” 

“Cool!” Excitement thrilled through Viktor’s veins in a firework because _dragons_ and _adventure_ and _I want to know Yuuri’s friends because I want to know every part of Yuuri_. “I’ll go right on up, then.” 

So onwards Viktor went, heading up the stairs in a lazy jog. About halfway up the staircase he started to feel it – the wiry tickle of ice in the air. He breathed it in, let it stretch out his lungs, and it felt like inhaling fairy dust. No, Viktor thought, it felt like coming home. Without Yuuri there, his house had become nothing more than a shell and, much to Yurio’s constant misery, he had taken to turning the thermostat down as low as it would go, to leaving buckets of ice lying around in every room; Viktor had even bought an electric fan which he used to douse the living room in a frosty breeze. To be cold was to be at home; to be cold was to feel love. 

With each step his smile grew, expanding like a universe, until he reached the door of the spare room.  Despite a lattice of ice weaving across the door, the handle was singed. When Viktor touched it, a spit of heat bit into his skin. And, of course, this made his smile grow because _adventure._  

But then, he caught sight of something through the slither of light between the door and the frame; wings. Not the silky, nightsky blanket of Yuuri’s, which were currently still punctuated by three glaring white moons of gauze. No. These wings were in cloudy swirls of orange and red and yellow, telling the story of a Romantic sunset at the end of an overly-dramatic film. They were much smaller than Yuuri’s too; about half the width and only a slice of the height. For a moment, all Viktor could think of was how soul-touchingly beautiful the wings were. And then it hit him. 

_Dragons use their wings to attract a mate._

So Viktor did the only reasonable thing one _can_ do when a dragon is trying to steal one’s boyfriend. He burst in, brandishing the spoon in one hand and trying to yank his _shashka_ out of its scabbard with the other, the latter of which only served to make him lose his balance. One second he was rushing down for a date with the floor, and then strong hands were under his arms, out of nowhere, and he was being placed firmly back on his feet. 

“Vitya?”

Yuuri was sat upright in bed, wings fluttering ambiently in exhales out at his sides. Head-tilted to the side, blinking, an utterly bemused expression on his sharp-soft face, Viktor felt everything inside of him melt a little bit. For a moment, his world was self-narrowed down to the dragon, heliocentric to Yuuri’s face as it cracked into a delighted – if still somewhat confused – smile. 

But then, the spell was broken by the thought _but if Yuuri’s in bed then who caught me_? The answer was, of course, the owner of the foreign set of wings. Viktor turned his attention to the squirt of a boy stood beside him, and he carved his face into marble, jutted up a sharp eyebrow. The boy’s cheeks were two red apples, his blush almost deep enough to match the splodge of red licking through his muddy-sand hair. Even without his wings out, Viktor would have recognised the pipsqueak as a dragon by virtue of his leather get-up. 

“Ooooo!” The boy clapped his hands and Viktor’s mouth dropped into a line because, _really_ , he was sick of the kid already. “Is this lunch?” 

“No! No, it is _not_.” Black bled into Yuuri’s eyes. “This is Viktor. And you don’t eat humans anymore, Minami.” 

“ _Viktor_?” The younger dragon’s – Minami’s – wings started to beat frenetically. Viktor was nearly knocked off his feet by one particularly vivacious swing and thus distanced himself. “Oh! Your mate.”

“Yes,” Viktor chipped in, making a point of touching a hand to his sword, “I’m his _mate._ So put your wings away, soldier, before I do it for you.” 

“ _Viktor_.” Yuuri’s voice was a hiss. “Be nice. He’s just a – _is that a new spoon?”_

To the slight wheeze of Minami’s wings concertinaing in on themselves, Viktor turned his attention to Yuuri. He flooded himself with charm; his grin just one-sided enough to almost be a smirk, his body extended to his full height so that every line was clear as a high note against his breath-tight training gear. Scruffing a hand through his hair, Viktor nodded. Just for good measure (but mostly because he could feel Minami’s eyes on him) he threw Yuuri a wink. 

In two strides he was at the bed, perching by Yuuri’s side, gloving Yuuri’s forehead with his palm. At the sensation of ice gnawing into his skin, Viktor relaxed. The dragon wasn’t quite as cold as Viktor would have liked, but he was definitely getting there. Replacing his hand with his lips, Viktor pressed the soup spoon into Yuuri’s palm. The small, sunlight gasp that he received in response made Viktor want to just curl up in a ball with his dragon for the rest of forever. Yuuri was a precious thing to be protected, at all costs. 

“So _you’re_ Yuuri’s human?” 

Viktor snatched his head back around to glare at Minami, who was just blinking back at him with headlight eyes. The pocket-sized dragon’s hands were scrunched into jagged fists at his sides and Viktor gave him a special sort of smirk that, admittedly, if he’d seen on someone else would have led him to brand them an asshole. 

“Yes. I’m Yuuri’s human.” He liked the way the phrase tasted. “I thought we’d established that.” 

“But. But you’re so _old_.” 

“No, I am _not,_ pipsqueak.” 

“Yes, you are,” Minami pointed out dumbly. Yuuri had covered his mouth with a hand and, at the glimmer of a giggle, Viktor realised that he was laughing, which somehow helped soothe his pride. “You’ve got grey hair.” 

“Oh,” Yuuri’s face had dropped to mirror the sound, “ _Minami._ ” 

“My hair,” Viktor breathed, cast in shadow, “is _silver_.” He turned his face back to Yuuri. “Isn’t it, _Drakonchik?”_  

“Yes, Viktor, of course it is.” And then Viktor found that he didn’t much care what colour his hair was, because Yuuri was petting it. 

For a moment, at least, everything was peaceful. Yuuri’s fingers – the ones that weren’t wrapped around his latest gift – were feathering through Viktor's hair, and it reminded Viktor of one of the many veins of water that trickled through their forest. He shut his eyes and they were there, skating out on a frozen pond, Yuuri’s deceptively thin arms holding him up with ease, coaching him through a simple spin. It was _their_ place; another patchwork corner of the world that had become their home by virtue of happy memories made there. 

Viktor felt Yuuri’s arms hook around him, and then he was being shifted around, as easily as if he were a ragdoll, pulled closer to his dragon so that he was nestled in the shell of Yuuri’s wing. The position didn’t feel quite right, but then Yuuri nuzzled the side of his cheek against Viktor’s chest and then, _oh_ , it did. 

It was a constellation of moments before Viktor deigned to peel his eyes open. From his new place on the bed, Minami was in his direct line of sight. It was very hard for Viktor to resist the iron urge to stick out his tongue, and instead he settled for the smuggest smirk he could rustle up. Much to his annoyance, Minami matched him. 

The younger dragon had started spitting sparks in a haze of fireflies. When he lifted his palm, the sparks congregated there in a ball of sunlight. Viktor tore his gaze from the intrinsically beautiful – no, _mesmerising_ was the word – sight to check Yuuri’s line of vision; gritting his teeth, he saw that it was glued to Minami. Fingers danced through the flames, shaping it, warping it, and Viktor was reminded of a video he’d once seen of glass blowing. Minami bought the ball of fire up to his face and blew on it lightly, a kiss of a thing, and it dissipated in butterfly embers. 

Viktor saw the show for what it was.

“I have a _shashka_ ,” he pointed out. Two sets of draconic eyes drilled into him, and his hand found the hilt of his blade. “It’s long and hard and sharp and I am _very_ good at impaling people with it.” 

Ice coiled down his neck in a frosty whisper, and Viktor turned his head in response to it – only for his maelstrom of jealousy (because, even Viktor could admit to himself, that’s what he _was_ because _how the hell am I supposed to compete with a fire-manipulating dragon_ ) to be stoppered by Yuuri’s lips against his. The pair melted together, down into one soul. There was no fire, but there were sparks in all the ways that mattered. Where Yuuri’s fingertips danced across Viktor’s chin they left a trail of frost. Viktor shivered and it wasn't solely because of the cold. 

Later that evening, after Minami had left and Yurio had arrived but was downstairs making _Pirozhki_ with Phichit in the kitchen, Yuuri would say _Viktor he’s only seventeen you didn’t need to be jealous he’s just a kid._ Viktor would shrug, touch his lips to Yuuri’s cheek bone, and whisper _I always want to be your human._ And then they would kiss again, and then again, and again until Yurio opened the door without knocking only to screech _Jesus Christ you animals all you ever do is make out how do you even breathe._

  

* * *

 

“Viktor.” Yurio breathed in, deep. In his pocket his fingers hooked around the grip of his _misericorde_ , the dagger resting in a make-shift holster he’d sliced into the pocket of his black jeans. It felt good in his hand, steady as a shadow, and he let himself exhale. His heartbeat was rattling his veins. “I need to ask you something.” 

Yurio waited, understanding that the task of prying his eyes off of Yuuri’s face for five fucking seconds was an extremely arduous one for Viktor to undertake. What he got was two sets of eyes – one set big and round and earnest, caramel in a cup of quartz, and the other a glacial ache of almost-worry. Yurio told himself that the ripple of warmth that licked through him was from nervousness. No. He told himself it was red-hot annoyance because Viktor still had one hand in the Jabberwocky’s hair and _would it kill you to not be touching him it’s my turn for attention._ Because since Yuuri had come home – because this _was_ Yuuri’s home, or, rather, this _wasn’t_ a home without Yuuri in it – Viktor had resumed his entirely indecent quest to constantly have some part of his body touching some part of Yuuri’s and, apparently, he wasn’t picky about which parts those were. Somehow, Yurio found he didn’t mind it quite as much as he pretended to. But still, _come on_. 

The lovebirds blinked at him, and Yurio’s own eyes fluttered to the ground. Looking at them sometimes, when they were curled up on the couch like two halves of a whole, hurt. It _ached_ in long, reaching, tidal ways that Yurio was perfectly happy to not look into. 

“There’s, this.” He threw a breath through his mouth, blowing out the cobwebs. “There’s a cat.” 

“Is that teen-talk for something?” 

“No. There is a literal cat and she’s been following me around for the past few months. She’s fluffy and soft and I’d like to adopt her.” 

“How long?” Yurio flicked his eyes to the Jabberwocky, whose face had slipped into that stupid puppy-dog look. “The cat. How long has it been following you for? Exactly?” 

“I don’t know. What does that matter?” He paused for a moment, stretching his mind back into his memory. “Since my birthday.” 

“So _that’s_ what I’ve been smelling on you!” 

“What?” Yurio blinked out an ellipsis. 

“Yuuri’s been catching this strange scent on you for _months_.” Viktor waved his hand in a loose loop, his face cracked with a grin. “I assumed you had a lady friend.” His hand stopped still in the air and slimmed down to the point of a finger. “Or a gentleman caller. Or an otherwise-gendered swain. Or all of the above.” 

“What the fuck’s a swain?” And then, oh, Viktor’s words caught up with Yurio and everything tingled with tiny pinpricks of red. So, of course, he bared his teeth in a scowl and puffed his chest out. In his pocket, his fingers squeezed around his dagger. “I have,” he gritted the words out in sharp spits of gravel, “a _cat._ I would like to take it in. Please.” 

“What? Are you crazy?” Viktor’s eyes bugged out and, if he hadn’t still been dizzy from the previous accusation, Yurio would have found it humorous. “Strays are _dangerous._ It could be vicious or have fleas or _anything_.” 

Yurio almost choked. _Are you fucking kidding me says he with a fucking dragon for a motherfucking swain oh my god what the actual ever loving fuck he wants a dragon he gets a dragon but oh no when I want a cat the shithead says no sometimes it is really hard not to kill you Viktor I don’t think you appreciate how much self control I exercise around you and your stupid fucking Jabberwocky._ Somehow, he managed to convey all of this with one solitary glare. It was a talent. 

And then, Yurio stalked off upstairs because, _really_ , he was too damn tired to deal with any of this shit.

 

* * *

 

The moonlight kissed his wings in arias. If he shut his eyes, Yuuri could feel the turn of the Earth beneath his palms where they were pressed into the dewy grass. Everything was _alive_ – the crickets made an organic symphony in the background, the trees fringing their clearing sighed secrets against the midnight breeze, a nearby vein of water kept a pulse. The air tasted both smoky and intrinsically fresh at the same time, in the way that completely clear nights do. One by one, the stars winked down at them and it felt like approval. Like a sign. _We are meant to be together._ And, okay, _now_ he was starting to sound like Viktor. 

_Viktor._ The human was next to him. No – he was coiled around him. Yuuri’s head was cushioned against the soft muscle of Viktor’s arm, a pearl tucked into an oyster, and he could hear the intoxicating rush of blood beneath the skin. But it was okay. Yuuri wouldn’t hurt Viktor, and he had the scars to prove it. Because that’s all the holes in his wings were now; scars. Moon craters. For the moment, at least, there were no plumes of black reaching for his eyes, no second set of teeth teasing at his gums. For the moment, at least, everything could be as simple as _I love Viktor_ and _Viktor loves me_. It was, after all, Date Night. 

Yuuri’s human shivered and it was a barely-there thing, a suggestion of movement, but Yuuri felt it as monumentally as an earthquake. He breathed in, hard, pulling everything into his core; sparks of ice, flicks of frost, murmurs of snow rushed to his fingertips, an inhale. For good measure, he tucked his left wing around Viktor, just that little bit tighter, forming a blanket of starlight. 

He felt Viktor squirm next to him, and then hot breath was easing into the shell of his ear; “show me another one.” 

Rolling his eyes softly, Yuuri held up his hand – the one that wasn’t currently encapsulated in both of Viktor’s. He made an _L_ with is thumb and forefinger, half of a frame, and held it up against the sky. One by one, in a choreographed sequence, stars picked themselves out for him. He flicked his fingertips outwards against his thumb, a starburst of movement, and sparks of ice overlaid themselves against thirteen, fourteen, fifteen of the stars, joined together by a breath of frost. Viktor’s subsequent squeal and the warm mapping of lips against his jaw was almost enough to make Yuuri lose his focus; this was a new trick for him, and it was a magic he had to work hard to maintain. 

“What’s it called?” Viktor’s voice was a stardust purr. 

“That one,” Yuuri squinted at the shape, “is Draco.” 

“Is there a story?” 

A smile sighed to Yuuri’s lips. He turned his head to the side, his nose snagging softly against Viktor’s, and the frost melted from the sky. The way Viktor’s eyes sparkled was incomparable to the stars purely because no number of stars could ever stand to compete with the brightness, the hope, the adoration that shone in Viktor’s forget-me-not irises. It was a human oddity, Yuuri thought, how their eyes never changed colour, but in Viktor it was something he appreciated; Yuuri couldn’t imagine a colour sweeter, nicer, finer than the blue of Viktor’s eyes. 

Yuuri knew he’d been caught staring because he was reprimanded with a kiss, a petal touch of lips to lips. A blush blotched his cheeks, but Yuuri found that he didn’t mind because _Viktor calls me adorable when I blush_. 

“Adorable.” _There you go._ “Is there, though? A story?” 

“Draco was a dragon. He was a terrible creature. Dangerous. He killed humans indiscriminately – men, women, children, the old, the young, the healthy, the sick. Sometimes he killed because he was hungry; other times he killed because he was bored. He was a dragon.” _Like me_. “Try as they might, the humans couldn’t kill him. They couldn’t even defend themselves. So Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, came down from on high. So blinded was he by her beauty that he didn’t even think to fight her. She grabbed him by his tail, swung him around her head and threw him up into the heavens, where he was frozen in place by Polaris, the north star.” Yuuri raised his finger. “There, see? Pol.” He paused to catch his breath because he could feel Viktor’s eyes on him and how was he supposed to focus on something as complex as breathing when Viktor was looking at him like that? “Polaris.” 

“One day,” Viktor’s murmur was a silk scarf and it wrapped itself around Yuuri’s neck, “there’ll be a constellation up there for us.” 

Yuuri tucked his nose against Viktor’s cheek, letting small particles of ice fissure his eyelashes together. Because, yes, he had no doubt that, one day, they would be naming constellations after Viktor, the Chosen One, the hero. And he would deserve every last one of them. Maybe there would be one for Yuuri too – and that was a thought that terrified Yuuri right down to his bones. _People like me don’t get constellations for doing the right thing._ And then claws ripped through Yuuri’s stomach because _can’t I just go for one damn night without thinking about what I am._  

He felt Viktor’s hand hug against his shoulder, and the tide of warmth it sent through him capsized his train of thought. Viktor was here, with him, right by his side. Viktor loved him _because_ he was a dragon, not in spite of it. Yuuri nodded to himself. 

Together, moving as one, they sat up, Yuuri’s left wing staying tucked instinctively around his human. It wasn’t quite possessiveness, or maybe it was. But that was okay, because Yuuri was just as much Viktor’s as Viktor was his. Viktor’s hand tiptoed from Yuuri’s shoulder to his neck, up along his jaw and into his hair. Leaning into the touch, Yuuri purred and it sounded like _want_. 

With his spare hand, Viktor plucked up a can of beer from the half-empty six-pack next to him. After his first experience with alcohol, Yuuri had firmly decided that it must be poisonous to dragons, but he still accepted the can when Viktor passed it to him. He squeezed his fingers around it, focussing, _inhale, exhale,_ and then he handed it back, ice-cold. There was a metallic _pop_ as Viktor opened it, and then he gulped it down in a deep sigh. Yuuri’s eyes were drawn, pinprick sharp, to the gentle, ebbing movement of Viktor’s throat as he swallowed. His mouth suddenly felt very dry. 

“Thanks, _Drakonchik._ ” Viktor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. When Viktor’s lips met Yuuri’s, they were deliciously cold. Viktor was the only thing that could make Yuuri shiver, and the dragon _adored_ it. “Now, I’m a couple of beers down, we’re stargazing, my _gorgeous_ boyfriend is under my arm – I think we all know what time it is. Time for me to remind you how lucky I am.” 

“V-Vitya, really, you don’t have to-” 

“Yes. Yes I do.” And Viktor looked so certain, the glacial blue of his eyes frozen in place, that Yuuri had no option but to nod. When Viktor’s hand, cupped softly to the back of his head, guided Yuuri’s face to a rest at the older man’s chest, Yuuri made no protest; Viktor’s heartbeat was his favourite lullaby. Long, chilly fingers drifted contrails in Yuuri’s hair. “Because I know you, Yuuri Katsuki, and you’ll forget how much I love you, how _precious_ you are if I don’t remind you. And you deserve to always know, just how loved and how precious you are. I wish Phichit had introduced us sooner. I love how things aren’t grey anymore.” 

“Grey?” Yuuri blinked, tilting his head to the side. 

“Being with you feels like flying.” Viktor took another glug of beer, and an amber bead carved a trail down his chin. With a gentle tug, they both flopped back to lying on the grass – or, rather, Viktor was lying on the canvas of Yuuri’s wing, and Yuuri was half on the grass, half spilt against Viktor’s chest. “When I was a kid, I used to have dreams where I could fly, like a superhero. Being with you feels like those dreams.” 

“Fly-ing.” The word stuck to Yuuri’s tongue like sand. And then it sparked, blazing a trail down the back of his throat, down into his lungs. “ _Flying_.”

“Oh! Oh, um. It’s.” Viktor’s face screwed up in thought; this wouldn’t have been the first time a language barrier had presented itself. “It’s what birds do. And planes. Up in the sky.” Viktor sprung to his feet, stumbling over himself so as not to tread on Yuuri’s wings, and raced around in circles with his arms outstretched. “Flying.” 

Yuuri could have said _I know what flying means,_ but he didn’t. Firstly, because Viktor was giving him that all-encompassing grin that made everything seem that little bit brighter, that little bit warmer. Secondly, because more important things were trickling through him. Sparks were shooting through the veins of his wings, gilding the joints. Electricity through a dusty circuit. 

Slowly, the ground beneath him warping, Yuuri got to his feet, his wings arching and pressing against the grass to form scaffolding. Viktor had stopped statue-still, his smile wavering and then collapsing as he rushed to Yuuri’s side. But there was only one thought in Yuuri’s mind, glaring in neon; _Viktor wants to fly._  

“Yuuri?” The beer can fell from Viktor’s hand. “ _Drakonchik_? Are you alright?” 

“I’d like to try something.” Yuuri wasn’t exactly sure where the words were coming from, or what it was that he wanted to try, but the words were burning through his blood. It felt like having a _shashka_ in his hand. 

“Okay.” Viktor nodded, his eyes as wide as reflected moons in rippling water. He stepped closer, a haze of heat about him that made Yuuri’s nose twitch. The dragon slayer's tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he was close enough that the action wet Yuuri's too. “I’ll trying _anything_ once.” 

“No. I. I didn’t mean.” The stars of Draco twinkled their Morse code support. “I think there’s something different, about my wings. It. They.”

And then, because his words weren’t working, his wings did the talking for him. They arched up behind him until they all but overlapped. Looking up at them over his shoulder, it was hard to differentiate them from the stage of the night sky. They swooped down, then up again, and then they sort of curved in on themselves, like two cupped hands, catching the breeze. Another beat, _up, down, inhale, exhale, up, inhale, down, exhale, Viktor wants to fly._

There was a sensation that felt like tearing, like fingernails were ripping into his shoulder blades and wrenching them apart from one another. Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut against the burn. The trees that framed their patch of forest curtseyed and bowed against the gust of his wings as they beat. Yuuri felt his legs go boneless, but his feet turned to lead. Peeling his eyes open, it was to see he was levitating around three feet off of the ground. No, not levitating – that suggested some semblance of stability. Yuuri was lilting from one side to the other, juddering up and down, his wings beating too hard one moment and then not hard enough the next. 

Viktor barked out a dizzy, delirious laugh. It was a breathy thing. But then he tried again and it was a proper chuckle, a warm rumble of a sound. 

“Yuuri!” He made a megaphone out of his hands. “You’re _flying!”_  

The jarring jolt of this declaration was enough to make Yuuri realise that _shit I am flying_ , which was in turn enough for his wings to conveniently shut down their apparent autopilot. In fact, they decided that this would be the _perfect_ moment to fold up and slide themselves seamlessly back in through the slits of Yuuri’s jacket. Viktor was waiting for him, however, arms open, and Yuuri landed neatly in them, like a hand into a pocket. The Russian held him there for a moment, bridal style, Yuuri’s knees hooked loosely over Viktor’s forearm. Viktor dipped his face down low, nose-to-nose, and the red staining Yuuri’s cheeks, the wheeze of his breathing wasn’t solely down to physical exertion. 

“How?” Viktor’s voice was as soft as a blink, and there it was, that feeling of being _beheld._ “How did you…” 

“I don’t know.” Yuuri shook his head. But then he stopped. Because he _did_ know. “It was you. It’s what you’ve done to me, Viktor Nikiforov.” 

The way Viktor was looking at him right then, for the first time in forever, Yuuri believed that he might be something wonderful, without exception.

When Viktor, still cradling him like he was something precious, kissed him, sparks of ice lit them up, the antithesis of fireflies. And they were just two people in love. And, for the moment at least, nothing else mattered. It was better than flying. 

Later, they would agree to keep the flying to themselves, a special thing just for _them_. The following week, when Date Night rolled around again, Yuuri would maintain a level four feet for a whole thirty seconds. The week after that, he'd be able to move from side to side. Viktor would be stood beneath him, arms out, ready to catch Yuuri should he fall.

  

* * *

 

The concrete walls of the elite training room, deep in the belly of the St Petersburg Shield of Dragon Slayers, were struggling to contain the bouncing bounds of laughter. Mila was doing a sort of slapstick routine with her battle axe, twirling it around and tumbling and performing near-misses with such a hammed-up look of shock that even Yurio couldn’t button in a snort. It was for Yuuri’s benefit, the dragon knew; it was his first training session with them, and even though he knew all of them, there was still that niggling fear of _what if I don’t fit in what if they don’t like me._ Which, given that Georgi had shot him three times only a handful of months ago, was not an unreasonable concern. Even with a giggle on his lips and Viktor’s arms looped loosely around his waist, insecurity worked itself into the threads of Yuuri’s bones. 

When Yakov dispersed them, telling Yuuri to get a feel for things, Yuuri padded after Viktor like a shadow. What he didn’t notice, however, was that Yurio was stalking after them too. The teenager reached the weapons’ rack before they did, and snatched out a _shashka_. 

“Oi, Jabberwocky.” Yurio’s face was jutting down in a sharp incline, and Yuuri found that he had to look up at the youngest slayer. _He’s growing up so quickly._ “Show them what you can do.”

Yuuri didn’t want to. He desperately didn’t want to because _this is Viktor’s thing he’ll hate me and I’m not really that good what if I make a fool of myself I don’t want them to laugh at me I don’t want them to hate me._  

But then the sword was twirling through the air in his direction, to the backdrop of Yakov screeching _we do not throw swords indoors,_ and Yuuri found that his hand was outstretched. It wasn’t so much that he caught the hilt of the _shashka_ , rather than it landed in his hand, and then his fingers just so happened to fasten around it. His heartbeat doubled, that silver thread flowing in through his palm and straight to his heart like a straight shot of adrenaline. 

“Georgi,” Yurio growled. “I think it’s about time you and the Jabberwocky here put some bad feelings to rest.” 

“Oh,” Yuuri’s breathing stuttered, “I don’t have any bad feelings.” 

“Shut it, Jabberwocky. The guy _shot_ you. You can’t be feeling all fluffy about him.” Yurio pointed at Georgi, the sharp edge of his fingertip a challenge. “Pick up a sword. Go on.” Unevenly, Georgi looked from Yurio to Yuuri and then to Viktor, who nodded, just the once. So Georgi did as he had been told. “Good. Now square up, and get ready for what little remains of your pride to go down in flames.” 

“Yurio, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Yuuri put in meekly. Still, though, his knees creased slightly, his feet shifted to be a shoulder-width apart. Georgi mirrored him. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” 

“That’s alright. Georgi isn’t anyone. He’s nobody.” Yurio waved his hand dismissively, and Yuuri made a mental note to get Viktor to have a word with him about respecting his fellow man. At the ache of a look on Yuuri’s face, Yurio scowled, deep and scathing. He tossed his head, his hair cutting around his jaw like fire. “I’ll referee. I won’t let anyone get hurt. Too badly. Okay? Swordplay only. No ice. No superspeed.” He smirked pointedly at Georgi and it looked almost like cruelty. “No crossbows.” 

Yuuri searched out Viktor with his eyes, but his boyfriend, his partner, his mate was just stood there, grinning, hands clasped in front of his chest. Briefly, it occurred to Yuuri that Viktor _liked_ seeing him with a sword in hand. He adjusted his grip. _Just imagine it’s a spoon. A really big spoon._  

Georgi nodded at him once, a slight bow of the head, and instinct told Yuuri to mirror it. 

With one swipe, their blades met. With a second, Yuuri had pushed Georgi a pace back. With a third, Georgi’s sword was clattering to the ground. With a thrust, the tip of Yuuri’s _shashka_ was a breath from the heaving bob of Georgi’s Adam’s apple. A rush of blood was thundering through Yuuri, drumming dizzily in his ears. It felt _good_. It felt like  _power_ and  _fire_ and  _ice._  

“Let me just reiterate,” Viktor breathed from the sidelines, just audible over the slow clapping of Yurio, “how much I fucking love you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. _You're going to break his heart._ Is this a prophecy? Yes. Yes, it is. Viktor didn't freak out about it, because there is still some part of him clinging to this idea of adventure and him being the hero. But also he's so in love with Yuuri - they're still very much in the honeymoon period - that he thinks them ever falling out is a complete impossibility (and, admittedly, the heartbreak isn't going to be caused by them falling out). So he's happy to brush that one under the carpet. 
> 
> 2\. With the first section, I really tried to impress that the Nikiforov-Plisetsky-Katsuki family dynamic is fully in place, with Yuuri being away from them perhaps being the catalyst for this. Both Viktor and Yurio are losing sleep (Yurio was anyway, but this particular bout of insomnia is focused on Yuuri) over The Confrontation, over Yuuri getting hurt. Yurio even gave Viktor advice on how to sleep through the nightmares, which is meant to show family but I was also trying to suggest that, as Yurio gets older (let's say he's maybe 16 1/2 by the end of this chapter, or just a smudge older), the balance of care between him and Viktor is sort of evening out. When Viktor passes on Yurio's regards to Yuuri, Yuuri immediately knows that Yurio wouldn't have put it like that, but actually feels more warmed by hearing the _exact_ words because he knows what they mean, because he knows and loves Yurio now, and vice versa. They are a family unit - or, rather, a pack.
> 
> 3\. Even when Yuuri's got the blood of young animals smeared across his face, Viktor still thinks he's adorable. Unconditional love? Maybe. Foolishness? Perhaps. Questionable? Absolutely. 
> 
> 4\. How much does Phichit know? Well, he knows a fair whack of stuff. He's not quite as omniscient as he might want people to think; for example, he wouldn't be able to predict next week's lottery numbers. He only knows what Fate decides to tell him, or what he can decode from the stars. He can feel/sense things too, e.g. if two people are compatible. 
> 
> 5\. The main trio's reaction to Georgi. Both Viktor and Yuuri forgive him because they understand that the guy was just doing his job, that Georgi was doing what he felt to be right, which in a way they both admire. Furthermore, Georgi feels extremely guilty about what he did (as seen by his immediate reaction, and from what Yakov says about not leaving Georgi alone lest him impale himself - also, based on where the bolts pierced Yuuri, Georgi either has terrible aim or he didn't mean to actually harm anyone), so they forgive him. Yurio, on the other hand, is still absolutely livid on Yuuri's behalf because he still has this I-can't-lose-anyone-again, I'll-protect-my-family-to-the-death mentality. The fear he had of losing Yuuri in that moment, and by extension the fear of losing his family in general, is now being taken out on Georgi. 
> 
> 6\. I'm not going to go into it any further in the fic, but Phichit used to work for the Shield as like their Official Prophet. However, his dragon-loving, Yakov-disobeying ways got him fired.
> 
> 7\. Why does looking at Viktuuri curled up make Yurio ache? Because he wants something like that, consciously or not. He wants someone to see the good in him like Viktor sees the good in Yuuri. He wants someone who feels like home, who makes him feel safe. He wants someone who can be Number One to. He wants someone who'll cuddle him because, let's face it, we all just want to be cuddled. Also, preferably, he wants someone with a cat.
> 
> 8\. The story behind Draco. I mostly made it up, based loosely on the constellation's Wikipedia page. The bones of it is 'true' - it's supposed to be a dragon thrown up there by the goddess Minerva. The rest is embellishment.
> 
> 9\. I've mentioned before that dragon's had evolved out of flight. But they'd evolved out of hoarding, too, which Yuuri still does. The recessive genes that made dragons do these things, for some reason are dominant in Yuuri. But, also, I think it definitely has something to do with Viktor's love making him stronger (sorry, I'm sappy like that). 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading this chapter, I hope you liked it, and a big hug for everyone who's commented so far - I really do appreciate it!
> 
>  
> 
> Preemptive Otabek playlist:  
> \- Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes  
> \- Renegade by Styx  
> \- Firestarter by The Prodigy  
> \- (Don't Fear) The Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult  
> \- Back in Black by AC/DC  
> \- Are We the Waiting / St. Jimmy by Green Day
> 
>  
> 
> Instead of a description, here's the title for the next chapter - _Interlude: Five Times Otabek Altin Took a Life and One Time He Didn't_.


	9. Interlude: Five Times Otabek Altin Took a Life and One Time He Didn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively: The Rise and Fall of Otabek Altin, Dragon-for-Hire.
> 
> Alternatively to the alternate: Otabek Altin's Origin Story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to be 100% straight up with you here. There was no plan for this chapter. In fact, if anything, I would call this chapter a vanity project fuelled by a fear of starting research on my dissertation. For each character I have a backstory sketched out in my head that I like to keep in mind when writing them. I had a fair bit of fun with Otabek's, so I decided to write his out and now I am thrusting it upon you. If you don't like his backstory, then feel free to forget about it because, other than character background, it does not do much in terms of advancing the narrative. The title of each little section, by the way, is meant to be a like a life code that Otabek lives by. I tried to do something a little different with this chapter seeing as it's an interlude - normal service will resume next chapter. TLDR: short and crappy vanity chapter is short and crappy, feel free to ignore. 
> 
> Also, I feel the need to give a bit of a warning. **This chapter is not cute and fluffy.** As the title of this little interlude suggests, Otabek is no angel.

 

**_1\. A game without rules is no fun._ **

 

The human children had a funny little game they liked to play. _Hide and Seek,_ they called it. To Otabek Altin, aged seven and five eighths, it made no sense. If you wanted to find someone, why would you let them run away in the first place? Why wouldn’t you watch where they went? Otabek, in short, didn’t understand the _point_ of it. There was nothing to be gained from it, no grand lesson to be learnt, nothing of consequence to be won. And yet, when he watched the human children, all soft and flimsy and wrapped in rainbow patchworks, he couldn’t help but envy them. They laughed. They smiled. They had _fun_. It wasn’t the kind of fun Otabek was used to – the thrill of the chase, the warm spill of blood down his throat, carving fire into the sky. It was, somehow, fundamentally _different._ He was wise enough to know that different didn’t necessarily equate to better, that the metaphorical grass wasn’t always greener on the other side, but he was a curious child, and he wanted – as all children do – to play and to have fun. To a young boy of seven and two thirds, be he human or dragon or anything in between, those are the two key concepts that make the world turn.

Everything about the playpark was bleached; the red paint of the railings was picked and flaking like dead skin, the cyan of the slide had faded to a watery blue-white, all the dandelions were clockless. The little kids’ swing, the kind that mothers strap their chubby, giggling toddlers into, was nothing more than a pair of chain-link arms, empty, reaching, trying to grab something they would never again hold.

But there _she_ was, sat cross-legged at the epicentre of this desolation, as lovely as a rose in the desert. Her golden hair fell down to her waist in lazy tendrils, a midsummer yawn. She was always wearing a dress (today’s was sweetheart pink), and always carrying a different doll (today’s was a Barbie dressed as a ballerina, her hair completely shaved off by stubby plastic scissors). Otabek strongly suspected that he might be in love with her. When the other human children flooded the park, on days that weren’t as grey as this, it was she who laughed the loudest, smiled the brightest, had the most fun. For over a month he had been watching her, and he knew the following; she had blonde hair that her mother always plaited but was always out of plaits by the time she reached the park, she had blue-green eyes that were made for holding sunlight, and – as he’d heard her shrilly declaring to another, smaller girl – she was nine and three twelfths. And she was _perfect._

Otabek had not spoken to her. In fact, this was as close as he’d ever come to her wondrous loveliness. Stood just outside the railing that bounded the park, one hand on the gate, he let himself tune out just enough to tune in to the glitter-shimmer of her _thudthudthud_ heartbeat. He felt the slits in his gums open up – but being only seven and two thirds, only the three teeth of his second set that had grown in popped up. All at the back. 

“Hello!” And there she was, right in front of him, and all of the words he’d collected together to present unto her scattered to the winds. “Do you want to play?”

Otabek nodded once, twice, three times before he ventured out a, “Hide and seek?” 

“Okay! You count first! All the way to one hundred! Can you do that?” Otabek nodded four, five, six times, and the little girl clapped her hands. “Good. Cover your eyes, then. No peeking!”

So Otabek hid his face in the soft shell of his hands, muttering the numbers under his breath. He got lost somewhere around the thirties, waited a moment, and then started afresh at fifty-two. Everything had narrowed down to the blackness, to the numbers, to the echoing _thudthudthud_ of her heartbeat, to her plastic-and-sherbet scent trickling to him on the breeze. Under his feet, the grass thrilled black and then shattered to ash grey. 

 _Yes,_ Otabek Altin thought to himself, _this is fun._

Later, when sunshine was gilding the clouds into silver, the other children would come out to play. And there, strewn haphazardly under the faded blue-white slide, they would find a bald ballerina Barbie doll, half of her face melted into a twisted scream, and no sign of her owner. 

By the time the police had decided that the little girl – Sabina Aliyev, aged nine, born and raised in Almaty – was not coming home, Otabek and his pack were already halfway across the continent, his mother cooing about how her little boy had grown into a little man.

Beyond rats and water voles, Otabek didn't eat for a month. Nobody could understand why.

 

* * *

 

 

 _ **2.**_   ** _If you’re good at something, never do it for free._**

 

It had been three months since Otabek, aged sixteen and a two thirds, had decided to go it alone. There was no falling out, there was no death or destruction, no sprawling wings or spits of fire. No. It had been slow, like the path of blood drooling down a slight incline. Viscous. Steady. The bones of it was this; pack life just wasn’t for Otabek, he felt too hemmed in, too unlike himself. Sometimes he wanted to stay in one place for a good few weeks after his pack had deigned it time to move on; others he wanted to grab a bite to eat and then jet off again, usually when his pack had decided that the place would be their base for a substantial chunk of the year. His feet itched if he stood in the wrong place for too long, and his hands hurt if he wasn’t reaching for something new. It wasn’t something Otabek had realised he was considering until he’d made the decision to leave. There had been no one for him to say goodbye to. 

Everything had been going swimmingly – he’d burnt through Germany, tasted the finest wines of France, soaked up the sun in Spain – and then his credit card had got declined. In Bruges, Belgium, of all places. The Gothic architecture had cut itself into laughing mouths and, in a quiet way, Otabek hated himself because he should have known the pack would realise he was still dipping into the joint account sooner or later. It was later, but not quite as late as he had hoped for. 

So there Otabek was, trailing through the dusty veins of Bruges, starting to find the city pretentious rather than deeply cultural. He could have moved on, but then he would only have had the same problem, just in another place. Hell by any other name would burn as badly. Besides, something deep in his bones told Otabek that Bruges wasn’t _done_ with him. Not quite yet. 

Money. He needed money. For shelter, for clothes, for alcohol, for essentials other than food. 

 _Food. Now there’s an idea._  

Sunlight was splaying its fingers through the slits of the streets as it set, a parting caress. Soon, it would be dark and Otabek would be able to hunt. He was fairly sure that the Bruges Shield of Dragon Slayers was on to him – but that was half of the fun. One death a night. No children. Nobody too weak to fight back. Only to feed. Give them a chance. _A game without rules is no fun_. That had been the problem with his pack, if he let himself think about it; indiscriminate killing, four or five dragons against one human, hunting for hunting’s sake – there was no _honour_ to it. There was no fairness. No _fun_. 

There had been a girl. Blonde hair. Blue-green eyes. Seventeen, maybe eighteen, years old. They had already eaten, already had their fill, and were heading back to the apartment complex the pack had taken over for the immediate future. She had been walking in the same direction as them. No streetlights. No people. Just them, and her. She had never stood a chance. Otabek never felt guilty for killing, it would be like feeling guilty for blinking and that would be pointless, but he _had_ felt guilty for standing back and watching it happen. _Letting_ it happen. It tore through him in long rakes that were white at first, but had faded to red with time. It had been _wrong_. So maybe Otabek did have morals, and maybe he was a touch hypocritical about them, but still. Killing her had been wrong. He would not be like them. 

His mind wandered through the memory as driftingly as his feet padded through Bruges. Even through the thick soles of his leather boots, the cobblestones bit into his feet. It niggled at him like regret. No. It niggled at him like _hunger._  

Later, he would not be able to remember the face of the human he had killed, nor the way they had screamed or the exact note the _snap_ of their neck had rung out. He wouldn’t even be able to remember if they had been a man or a woman. After the first hundred or so, kills blurred into one for Otabek. They were just nameless faces. Not even faces. They were just nameless bodies. _Prey._ Down the end of the alleyway, folding up the dead man’s – because, _yes_ , it had been a man – clothes in a neat pile for the police to find, everything had been a heady blur. His hand had hovered over the bulge in the pocket of the dead man’s jeans, a brimming wallet calling his name, but _no_. Stealing from the dead was wrong. The wallet would be needed for identification and, furthermore, any drinks bought with a dead man’s money would be poison. 

Knelt down over a charred pile of former bones, blood staining his face, forming thick, congealed lines under his nails, strings of sinew tangled in his teeth, Otabek was completely unaware of the man stood at the mouth of the alley, stood with his legs far apart, hand biting into his hip, appraising. 

“That was quite something, you know.” 

Otabek threw his head over his shoulder to take in the man, eyes flooded with obsidian smoke, razor blades mishmashing out of his gums. The man was cast in shadow, but Otabek could make out the metallic glint of something twirling loosely in his hand. The thrill of the kill, the rush of the blood had a somewhat intoxicating effect on Otabek, and he let out a low snort. _Like a gun could hurt me._  

“I’d run, if I were you.” Otabek’s voice was a throaty growl, his tongue thick with blood. The moonlight caught the man – he was young, slight, sharp – and a grin was carving into his face. “You don’t know what I am.” 

“I know that you’re more than human. You're certainly... _something._ ” The man winked, the movement so sure and strong that his head tilted to the side to accommodate it. Suddenly, Otabek found that he was listening to this stranger. “Look, I’m not here to antagonise you. But I’ve been watching. Every night this week, someone dead. The perpetrator untouchable. And it never makes it into the papers – you’ve either got friends in very high places, or you’re something so _terrible_ that they don’t want the public at large to know about you. I’m placing my bet on the latter. People like us, we don’t have friends. Do we?” 

“Cut to the chase.” Otabek ran his knuckles over his face, for some reason self-conscious about the crimson wash suffocating his skin. 

“Ah, a businessman! Good. The way I see it, we could have a somewhat… mutually beneficial arrangement. You clearly, well, _eat_ people – hey, I’m not judging, you do you. There are people I need gotten rid of. You carry on as you are, but you eat off of my… _menu_ , let’s call it. You get to eat. My problems get sorted out, and with no evidence left behind tying me to the murders. It’s a win-win.” 

“They are _not_ murders.” And then Otabek was on his feet. The slice of a movement was enough to wipe the smile from the stranger’s face; the man held up his gun, a revolver that looked more like a museum piece than a functioning weapon, its long, black eye trained on Otabek. The dragon couldn’t help but be amused, and a smirk jutted to his lips. “What’s in it for me?” 

“Well… My father always said that if you’re good at something, you should never do it for free. And you could be the best hitman to ever grace the streets of Bruges.”

“Ah, yes, because fucking _Bruges_ is known for its organised crime.” 

“Not just Bruges. This job’ll take you places, kiddo.” 

A pause breathed out between them, and Otabek could tell that he was being sized up. He stepped to the side, a slow, swoop of a thing, and the line of the gun moved with him. Playfulness welled up in Otabek, an urge to truly stretch his legs coiling up in his stomach. _If a game needs rules to be fun, then it’s about time I laid them out for him._  

The man didn’t even see Otabek move. In fact, the only thing he saw was a pile of neatly-folded clothes and a smouldering heap of chalky ash at the end of a soggy, moonlit alley. Otabek watched as the man looked from side to side, the gun pointing with his gaze. A grunt of laughter aired from Otabek’s nose, and then he clicked his fingers. The man spun to face him, mouth dropped open in a blackhole of disbelief. His hair was an electric blue colour, but roots were growing through and Otabek could tell that he was a natural blond. 

“How much?” Otabek was leant, slouching, against the wall of the alley. He clicked his fingers again and fire appeared in a starburst; he rolled it lazily along the back of his knuckles like a coin. 

“Name your price. I want you.” 

“Five thousand euros per hit.” 

“Bargain.” 

“Plus expenses.” 

“Of course.” 

“And you give me a full profile of each target. Age. Health record. Family. Friends. Job. Likes. Dislikes. Dreams. Ambitions. If they got stung by a bee once as a five-year-old, I want to know about it. I choose who dies.” 

“Hey, if it helps you sleep at night.” 

Otabek held out his hand, bound in a fingerless leather glove, to the man, a smile curving soft-sharp at his lips. The man reached to take it, to seal the deal with a good old fashioned handshake, but as soon skin touched skin he skittered back. 

“You _burnt_ me!” 

“Point your little toy,” Otabek pointed to the gun, now being waved about frenetically, “at me again, and you'll really see what I can do.”

 

* * *

 

 

  _ **3.**_ ** _Number One is always number one._**

 

“What the hell is this?” 

“A cat.” 

“You can’t keep it-” 

“ _Her._ ” 

“You can’t keep _her_ , Beka.” 

“Why not? I killed her owner. It only seems fair.” 

“I’m allergic.” 

“Okay.” 

“So you’ll get rid of her, then?” 

“No. I’ll move out.” 

“What?” 

“It’s time to move on, I think. We’ve been in one place too long. It’s been fun.” 

“It’s almost been a year since Bruges. You can’t just leave. We had a deal. You can’t just fucking leave me.” 

“Careful. That _almost_ sounded like affection.” 

“No. I mean it. You _can’t_ leave. We. I. It. We’ve _killed_ people. I. I know what you are. You know too much. I _need_ you. If you leave, I. I’ll go to the Shield. _Look at me._ ” 

A pause. A snap. A scream. 

“I told you, didn’t I? One of the first things I said. _Don’t point that thing at me again._ ” 

“You’re fucking crazy.” The words were gushed, crushed, bled out. 

“No. I’m _hungry._ ” 

When Otabek rifled through the dead man’s pockets, he didn’t even feel a drip of guilt for the three things he fished out; an iPhone with a storybook of fresh splinters splaying across the screen, a wallet full of sleek plastic, and the sharp dagger of a key. _Think of it as payment for my last hit. All debts settled._  

Only when he stood up, did Otabek realise his fingers were shaking. He was not guilty. The back of his mouth was acrid. There was nothing left, apart from a pile of neatly folded clothes, a heap of smouldering ash, and an antiquarian revolver. 

“C’mon, puss.” The cat, a powderpuff of a thing, wove tightly between his legs. He held up the key. “Let’s go for a spin.”

* * *

****

**_4\. Suffer no fools._ **

 

“I heard that you’re the best at what you do.” 

“You heard right.” Otabek rolled a comet of fire over his knuckles. With his spare hand, he tugged a carton of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, flicked one out, rolled the small speck of fire to his fingertip and lit the cigarette. He took a long drag. 

“I. How did.” The man opposite him, behind a desk of glass and metal, blinked. “I would rather you didn’t smoke in here.”

“Would you?” Otabek titled his head back, and exhaled up into the ceiling. With a slight flex of his insides, the heat from the cigarette _zipped_ back up into his fingers. “Okay, then.” 

“Thank you.” 

Otabek just tilted his head to the side. Everything about this was slimy, and he didn’t intend on wasting anymore words on this guy than he had to. He was not one to suffer fools – he had a body count to back that one up. The man in front of him, with his fake designer shirt, greying hair, and a nervous twitch to his left eyes _was_ undeniably a fool. A fool if he thought he wielded any sort of control over Otabek. A fool if he thought he could afford Otabek’s fees. And, above all, a fool if he thought he was leaving that office alive. 

“I have a job for you.” 

“That’s why,” Otabek threw up his hands, an open gesture sharp enough to make the fool flinch, “I’m here. You call me, word gets around, and I come running.” 

“So you’ll take it, then?” 

“Let’s just say, that I have a _good_ feeling about this.” He curled his face into a grin. “Go on then. Plead your case.” 

“My wife. I want you to. To. You know.” 

“Say it.” 

“I want you to kill her.” A pause dragged out. A beat. A moment. A flutter-shut of eyelids. A weighted sigh. “They told me you’d be like this. That you’d get up on your high horse about things. Wanting a _reason_. What about _I just want her fucking dead_ _and I’ll pay you five thousand dollars to get it done?_  Isn’t that reason enough?” 

“New price. _Fifteen_ thousand dollars, seeing as you’re being so rude.” Otabek kicked his feet up onto the desk, landing them hard enough to send a splinter whining through the glass. Or maybe the whining was from the man – Otabek couldn’t be quite sure. It was a sweet, saccharine sound. He knew it was wrong to play with his food, but maybe that was why it was so fun. “Tell me. Why do you want her dead? Do you have children? How old are they?” 

“What does any of that, m-matter?” 

“Humour me.” 

Silence sank its teeth into the office. Otabek could hear the man’s heartbeat, bounding along like a three-legged rabbit from a fox. Outside of the window, a smeared thing that breathed across an entire wall of the office, the Chicago skyline glistened. Thousands of easy kills were out there, but no. This meal would be far more satisfying; a kill was so much better, Otabek had found, when it coincided with justice. 

His eyes flicked around the office. Three things stuck out to Otabek. First of all, that the man was wearing a wedding ring – a simple band of gold that bit tightly into his finger, just under the purpled swell of his knuckle. _He still loves her._ No, Otabek shook his head; _he still sees her as his._ The second thing he noticed was, pinned in place by a magnet on the filing cabinet, a piece of paper bursting with various tornadoes of Crayola. _He has at least one young child._ The third thing that stuck out to Otabek as significant was that the man had an ashtray on his desk, littered with stubbed-down corpses. _It was a test. He likes being in control._  

Once again, he started to roll fire through the mountain range of his knuckles. The flame licked at his skin but it did not burn. It felt like a kiss. 

“How come you can do that?” The man was pointing to the wispy ball of citrine, as though worried Otabek would assume that he was referring to the act of breathing. 

“How come you want your wife dead?” Otabek’s voice was a relaxed drawl, going nowhere fast. _I’ve got all night._  

“She’s leaving me. Now, see, she can’t do that. She’s spun these lies, about my temper, see? And they’ll believe her. Of course they will. I’ll never see my kids again.” 

In one slice of a swing, Otabek’s feet were back on the floor and he was standing. The man’s left eye twitched, the pull of a trigger. Otabek twirled his finger in a loose circle, like a stick in a cotton candy drum, and the ball of fire orbiting it swelled to the size of an overripe grape. He flicked it upwards, and sparks rained down in shades of sunset as it collided with the artistically bare bulb that lit the room. A click of his fingers, and the flames that were gnawing through the dangling wires of the light evaporated. No smoke. 

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he didn’t need to be able to see to know that the man, the _fool_ , had cowered in on himself, was curled in a tight ball in his sleek plastic office chair. A sigh waltzed out of Otabek’s mouth, something elegantly guttural to it, at the rich, intoxicatingly clear scent of the man’s sweat. Salt and blood and stale cologne. 

 _Yes_ , Otabek thought, _this game is fun_.

 

* * *

 

_**5** _ _**.** _ **_Do what you love._ **

 

The hotel room was too hot. It was too hot for thinking. It was too hot for moving. But move he must, for he’d been sprawled on the marshmallow of a bed for far too long, and blood stains, he knew, were harder to scrub off the longer they were left unattended. The hit had been a simple, if not wholly satisfying, one – a petty revenge job, something to do with money laundering – but it was too _hot_ to be fussy and, besides, the stretches between jobs were getting longer. He spent money on things that he shouldn't, and it evaporated all too quickly. Otabek could no longer afford to be _too_ picky. 

He had thrown the window open, but the curtains hung static beside it. All breath had been suckered from the world. His cat was laid out across his chest, alternating between kneading her front paws against his shoulder and dabbing her tongue against the dried blood clingfilmed to Otabek’s jaw in the hope that, just maybe, it would have turned to some kind of ice cold drink. She had a dish of water in the corner, under the window, but it was too hot for her to take on the backbreaking task of crossing the hotel room. It was the kind of heat that leaches the energy out of everyone and everything. 

No, it wasn’t accurate to say that Otabek Altin, aged eighteen, was hot. Because he _wasn’t_. He was a dragon, and a being carved of blood and fire did not get _hot._ But he was just as effected as anyone else by the inherent exhaustion of such a day. 

“Where shall we go to next, hey, Puss?” He scratched lazily behind her ears, and in return she pressed her face against his neck. Affection. “England? No. You’re right. Too soggy. What about Lichtenstein? No? Where _would_ princess like to go, then, hmm?” 

He hooked his hands loosely around her stomach and hoisted her up, suspending her just above his face. For a moment she just hung there, tail flicking back and forth like a pendulum, blinking slowly at her master. If he squinted, Otabek could blur her eyes into stars. This was contentment, he thought; blood on his face, a full belly, a full tank in his motorcycle, and a cat in his arms. Apart from, it wasn’t contentment. Not really. His feet were itching and his hands were hurting, but there was no new place to go, nothing new to reach for. A mosquito touched down on his neck, and he did not swat it away. 

At age eighteen, Otabek Altin had seen everything the world had to offer. And he was tired of it. Yes – that was it. He was _tired_. For the first time in quite possibly forever, he ached for a home that wasn’t a winding, blood-splattered road. He wanted arms around him, arms that would stay tied tightly around him for more than one single, solitary night; arms that wouldn’t let go even when they weren’t _physically_ touching. Human or draconic, male or female, he didn’t care. He had been adrift for too long, and he needed an anchor. Briefly, it occurred to Otabek that he might be Depressed, capital _D._ He tried to shrug that thought away but then found he couldn’t; _too much effort._  

And then, Puss pressed her paw softly to his forehead. Warmth radiated outwards in a mandala. 

“I know, Puss. I know.”

 

* * *

 

_**1.** _ **_No matter what direction your moral compass points in, follow it._ **

 

Otabek didn’t _understand_ it. Well, actually, there was a long list of things about the entire situation that he didn’t understand; why the strange little prophet had reeled him in only to turn him and his information away, why the Japanese dragon had ice flowing through his veins rather than fire, why anyone thought it would _ever_ be a good idea to let the tall, silver-haired human flail about with a sword. All very good questions, and all ones that the prophet had promised would be answered, _all in good time, Mr Altin_ , _now run along and try not to eat anyone you’re three weeks clean let’s not break the streak now because you’re really rather important in the grand scheme of things and the St Petersburg Shield is the best in the business._ This garbled explanation had, of course, led to more questions than answers. But that was okay. The questions, the uncertainty, made Otabek feel _alive_ again. 

The current question that was on his lips, however, was thready and sour. It was smoky and cloying. It was one that he inhaled but could not exhale again; it pressed down on his chest. 

Because there _he_ was. The epicentre of all this madness. Hell, the epicentre of the entirety of St Petersburg itself, as far as Otabek was concerned. Never before had Otabek stayed in one city for so long without it burning, and _this_ was the reason why. Yuri Plisetsky, sixteen-and-seven-eighths, hair of stardust blond, eyes of organic, forest green but with a glimmer of daylight sky to them. He wasn’t beautiful, Otabek thought, not really. His edges were too sharp for that, the bags under his eyes too deep, the cut of his voice too violent. There were moments when Otabek suspected him of beauty, but no – Yuri Plisetsky was something else. He was _terrible_. He was _interesting._ He was something new and undefinable. 

He was a _dragon slayer._ Yes, Otabek knew that much. He had even seen Yuri with his _urumi_ , had seen him slash it about in whispers of silver, and never before had Otabek truly considered a human to be his equal. Never before had Otabek looked at a human and thought _if we were to fight I might not win._  In short, Otabek  _respected_ Yuri Plisetsky. He had the eyes of a soldier.

When Otabek had first started watching Yuri Plisetsky, the Russian had been halfway between being a man and a boy. Something protective had swirled up in him, something instinctive and deep that he didn’t quite understand. He had followed Yuri once, just after the teenager’s sixteenth birthday, when the younger teen had been out on patrol. The human had gotten himself crept up on and Otabek, somewhat suddenly, had found himself sending a ripple of heat straight for the slayer; a warning, a _quick turn around._ Now, though, the slayer was a breath away from seventeen – Otabek had overheard the Ice Dragon giving the tall human a lecture on why a set of throwing knives was _not_ a suitable birthday present – and he needed nobody to look out for him. His jaw was sharper. He was taller. Something about him, if Otabek caught Yuri at the right moment, was softer. 

Currently, however, Yuri was doing what Otabek knew he did when in a state of crisis; sitting on the doorstep of his hodgepodge, shoebox of a house, his knees jutted out to form a shelf for the pinpricks of his elbows, which in turn formed the support for his head, which was pressed, face-first into the cradle of his palms. If he had so wished, Otabek could have tuned in, could have caught the wavelength of an SOS heartbeat, the pulled tight squeak of stunted breathing; but he didn’t. He had done so too many times before, and it had started to hurt in ways that he couldn’t quite understand. Yuri Plisetsky belonged with an _urumi_ in one hand, a _misericorde_ in the other, a smirk on his face and dead enemies at his feet. He was not supposed to crumble like this. On anyone else, Otabek might have read it as weakness. Here, however, he read it as too much strength.

He darted his eyes down to the cat threading herself indulgently around his ankles. _Go to him_. And she did. 

When Otabek did eventually tune it, it was to the sound of marbled purring and _you’re a good girl aren’t you yes you are you are such a princess don’t worry I’ll talk Viktor around won’t I baby girl yes I will wait here a moment I think we’ve got some tuna inside._  

It was in the ellipsis between Yuri bustling inside and his return with a small tin of pungent fish that Otabek felt his phone rattle tightly in his pocket. His eyes scanned the screen, and a smile plumed onto his face. _FROM THE PROPHET: Come to my house tomorrow evening, six o’clock. Dress nice. First impressions are important. It’s bring-a-dish._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. If Otabek was crushing on that girl, why did he kill her? Well, in my head, I saw it as an accident, but I didn't want to write out her death scene. I saw her as being Otabek's first solo kill - hence his mother's pride - and partially because of that, but also because he genuinely didn't mean to kill her, she sort of haunts him a bit, hence his refusal to partake in the killing of the girl mentioned in section two. By human standards, Otabek might be seen as a bad guy, but he does have a strict moral code that he does his best to stick to; this is largely down to killing the little girl. Also, I wanted his origin story to sort of echo Yurio's a little bit - Yurio made his first kill at the age of six. Her appearance also slightly echoes Yurio's (blonde hair, green eyes), and that's partially why Otabek has an immediate protective instinct over him, and also why Otabek hasn't approached him (think about it, he has two significant relationships/interactions with humans and he kills them both).
> 
> 2\. The becoming-a-hitman scene is set in Bruges because the movie _In Bruges_ changed me as a person. 
> 
> 3\. If Otabek is so chill about going it alone, why has Yuuri repeatedly made claims that, without pack, he's pretty much meat on a stick? First of all, this is because Yuuri was expelled from his pack, whereas Otabek chose to leave. Second of all, this is because Otabek has no qualms about getting into a fight if he needs to, whereas Yuuri would. Third of all, other dragons probably wouldn't be too bothered by Otabek because he's pretty average in that he's fiery - whereas they would take a dislike to Yuuri on instinct. Fourth of all, Yuuri was pretty alienated from the human world (he was frightened by the microwave etc), whereas Otabek seems, at least by the end of this chapter, to be capable of independently integrating himself pretty well. Fifth of all, Otabek doesn't mind being alone (to begin with).
> 
> 4\. I saw this chapter as an opportunity to delve a little bit deeper into draconic matters - partly to show just how vicious your average dragon can be (not all cute and fluffy like Yuuri), but also to show their way of living. E.g. the fact that dragon-killings are pretty much covered up; I imagine that the Shield goes hand-in-hand with government, and both try to cover up these perfect killing machines to avoid mass hysteria. 
> 
> 5\. I'm not sure if I really made it all that clear, but the guy Otabek is arguing with, and ultimately kills, is the hitman dude from Bruges. I wrote that scene as almost like a script because I thought it would be an interesting technique to play with, and I thought it might add to the tension??? When he steals the guy's stuff despite it conflicting with his moral code, I wanted that to show he can choose to ignore his moral code when the mood takes him. I didn't go into it, but killing hitman dude is one of Otabek's big regrets. The key he steals is for the motorbike.
> 
> 6\. Otabek knows more about kill-my-wife guy than he lets on. By this point he's developed a strong sense of justice, and having been around humans for so long, it's how he lets himself kill. He's starting to think, by this point, that maybe there's more to life than running around playing hitman. He wants more.
> 
> 7\. So I tried to make it a thread going through the chapter, Otabek thinking of age as a number plus a fraction. But then in section five, he's just _eighteen_. I meant for that to show that he isn't really himself, something's gone from him. By section six, after observing Yurio for a while, he's back to fractions.
> 
> 8\. The final section is meant to be taking place after the last chapter. He's stumbled across some information pertaining to The Prophecy on his travels and, curious, he's headed on over to St Petersburg. Phichit knew he was coming (but he is not aware of what the information is) and so led Otabek down a trail right to his door, but because everything has to be done at exactly the right moment (and when Otabek is already kind of interested in Yurio, and has become a kind of vegetarian - mostly for the fun of it, but partly because that's just where he is as a person for the moment) he turned him away, but sort of put him on standby. In case you were wondering - Otabek does more in St Petersburg other than gaze at Yurio.
> 
> 9\. I have been stupid with time in this fic. So ages currently are: Otabek, 19; Yurio, nearly 17; Viktor, 29; Yuuri, 25. I think? I know I've breezed over a lot, but I didn't want to go in-depth on every minutiae of their everyday lives for the sake of plot progression. I am a fool.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope that this was okay! 
> 
> Next chapter: Potluck at Phichit's, Otabek tries to make a friend, Yuuri gets himself into a fight, Yurio gets himself a training partner, and Viktor is Viktor.


	10. New Recruit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: about three quarters of the way through the last section, Yurio intentionally cuts his hand open. He doesn't do this for the sole purpose of causing himself harm, but it is bloody and (hopefully) pretty intense. 
> 
> Gee whizz for someone who can't write combat there sure is a lot of combat in this chapter.
> 
> Also - thank you very much to everyone who has been reading this fic thus far! :)

 

 

It was disgusting, Yurio thought, the way they kept pawing at one another. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t entirely fair on the Jabberwocky – he was, after all, the pawed rather than the pawer – but no, he was guilty by omission. Barely one goddamn second could go by without Viktor turning his head to bat his eyelashes at the dragon, or pressing his hand just gently atop Yuuri’s for no apparent reason other than _just because_. With every little look, with every chaste touch, the temperature of the room would drop a few degrees, Yuuri’s cheeks would drop a few shades of red, and his eyes would drop a few octaves deeper. Sometimes, god forbid, Yuuri would even _giggle._ Yurio decided to retract his earlier assessment of things; _disgusting_ didn’t even begin to do it justice. _Totally fucking disgusting_ , maybe, was a little bit closer. 

Yurio flicked his eyes to Phichit, hoping for some stretch of sympathy. But no. Of course not. There the prophet was sat, in all of his infinite, omniscient glory, with his cell phone out – on Instagram, Yurio suspected. Maybe Phichit wasn’t a prophet after all, he mused, but was just very good at snooping on social media. It wouldn’t have surprised him. 

Weighted with coal dust, Yurio let his eyes drop down to his plate. It was still half full – a desert of crumbled pastry, a spill of meat, a crater of greying mashed potato – but he couldn’t bring himself to eat any more. He was tired, and all he wanted was to sleep but then, no, he didn’t want that because sleeping _hurt_. Just thinking about it, about the build up and the rush and the frustration, the downward spiral of exhaustion that had been drilling itself through his bones for too long, Yurio’s breath hiked up into his cheeks with a small squeak. He folded his eyes shut, just for a moment, and told himself to man the fuck up. Under the table, a soft coil of ice spread out and whispered around his ankle. By the time it had rippled to his heart, it had smudged into warmth. 

When he let his eyes slip open again, it was to the open ache of Yuuri’s face – it was too natural, too organic to be pity – and the blankness of Viktor’s, about whom everything had shrunk save for the thick downturned line of his lips. Phichit had traded looking at his phone for pouting down at his watch. 

“What?” Yurio forced his voice into a bite. Yuuri, at least, had the good manners to look down at his pristine plate. Viktor only blinked, and everything else was crushingly static. “What’re you looking at, old man?”

“Nothing.” Viktor’s voice was a starfall of a sound. When Yuuri gloved his hand softly over Viktor’s, Yurio did not find it _totally fucking disgusting._ “You just looked tired.” 

“Yeah, well, I _am_. Maybe if it wasn’t so cold at home all the time, I might _actually_ be able to get some sleep.” 

“You don’t mean that.” There was a glacial, serrated edge to Viktor’s voice, and Yurio shot him a glare. But he didn’t say anything because, no, he hadn’t meant it. This lack of denial was duly noted by all present. “Are you still grouchy over that cat?” 

“What? No.” Yurio blinked, his face sinking down into his most potent scowl. “Yes. Yes, I am. Right now, though? I’m more fucking grouchy over the fact that this is a potluck and _I’m_ the only one who’s made anything.” 

“I made mashed potato.” Viktor scooped up some on his fork and jabbed it in Yurio’s direction. 

“No, Viktor. The _microwave_ made mashed potato,” Yurio shot back, and making his voice into something sharp wasn’t so much of an effort. His scowl cut itself into a smirk. 

“I’m the host,” Phichit chirped up, raising his hand slightly, “which negates all responsibility away from me.” 

“And I’m a dragon.” Yuuri kept flicking his eyes around – from his plate, to the clock hung crookedly on the wall, to the floor – but not once did they land on Yurio. If he pretended he didn’t understand, Yurio could hate Yuuri for it. The coil of ice wrapped around his ankle, however, meant that he couldn’t. Which in turn, meant that he did. 

“Oh yeah, I forgot. _We_ are like a walking potluck to you, right?” 

“ _Yuri Plisetsky._ ” Viktor slammed his hands down on the table to accompany the deep hiss of his voice. 

Yurio wasn’t exactly sure why, or how, but he flinched. And then, of course, Viktor’s face exploded around his eyes, everything pulling down, and the Jabberwocky did that stupid fucking puppy-dog look, and Phichit was looking between the three of them like they were some fucking nuclear family a whisper away from meltdown, like he was trying to connect the dots. Yurio reached for the maelstrom of rage he always kept at hand, looking for some barb to fling or bomb to detonate, but no. Nothing was there. Only the thought _why are they looking at me like that I don’t want them to look at me like that why did I have to flinch I’m just so fucking tired._ It was dizzying, and, briefly, Yurio wondered precisely when it had gotten this bad.

“I’m sorry,” he grunted out, eyes falling back down to his plate. His half-eaten _Pirozhki_ glared back at him. The coil of ice around his ankle tightened to an almost-burn. He was not a being built for family dinners; he was not a being built for family. 

And then, Yuuri’s nose twitched. 

And then, the doorbell rang out. 

“Ah! That’ll be him.” Phichit clapped his hands together, and a dark voice in the back of Yurio’s mind crackled out _are you going to flinch at that too is baby scared of loud noises._ “Yurio, seeing as you’ve managed to hurt _everyone’s_ feelings, will you go and answer it?” 

“I haven’t hurt your feelings.”

“No, but the night is still young. So. Off you go.” Phichit beamed at him like a sunflower. On his periphery, Yurio caught Viktor share a look with Yuuri – the latter of whom was frowning. But the frown wasn’t residual from Yurio’s little outburst – for which he most certainly did _not_ feel guilty – no, it read differently. It was confusion. No. It was deeper than that, darker. Ice whispered across the window in thick jugulars. Yurio opened his mouth, but was cut off by the pitchy drag of the doorbell. “Go on.” Phichit made a shooing gesture with his hands. “Get the door, Yurio.” 

Yurio wasn’t exactly sure why he did it, but he dragged himself to his feet and out to the front door. Each step was like walking through water. He nestled his hand deep into his pocket and tucked his fingers around the hand of his _misericorde_. It didn’t feel like anything. If Yurio had been in the mood for taking in his surroundings, he would have noticed a framed photograph on the wall, of a long ago place and a faraway time; a young Yuuri, drowning in a bright blue jumper, was half hidden by an even younger Phichit, who was smiling widely enough to reveal two blackhole gaps in his teeth. In the picture, Yuuri had his eyes on his best friend rather than the camera, and his smile was a suggestion of a thing rather than an actual expression, like he wasn’t sure. Both of his podgy, gentle hands were braceleted around Phichit’s wrist. The photograph – faded, dappled with sunspots – hung directly opposite the front door. 

But Yurio was not in the mood for taking in anything other than the fact that he was in motion, and thus did not notice the picture. 

He jutted the front door open, the handle peculiarly warm against his fingers, like a breath of sunlight, and there was a stranger stood there. But he didn’t feel like a stranger, not in some fundamental, primal way. He felt like the shadow of someone Yurio had seen before, and thus he tightened his hand around his dagger. But then the stranger smiled – a lop-sided sigh of a thing – and Yurio found his hand trickling, empty, out of his pocket. And then he just stood there, staring, arms hung limply by his sides because there was _something_ about this man. Something that wasn’t quite right in the most enticing of ways, like smoke. No. Not _like_ smoke. There was literal smoke. Literal smoke, Yurio realised, because the man was smoking. _Well, that makes sense._  

But then Yurio wrinkled his nose because _only a douche bag would wear sunglasses on his head. At night._ Yes, Yurio latched onto that thought, and the more he basked in it the taller he felt, the more sure he was that this man was an asshole – jeans that probably cost all the more for being ripped, a t-shirt with a three-figure logo on it, a leather jacket that was too pristine to have seen any of the things a leather jacket ought to see. Yeah, this guy wasn’t so hot. Not that Yurio’s immediate impression had, in fact, pointed to the contrary. Nope. Of course it hadn’t. 

“Can I come in?” The man dropped his cigarette, scuffed at it with the toe of one time-smudged combat boot. “Or are you just going to stare at me?” 

“I’m _not_ staring at you.” To prove his point, Yurio flicked his gaze to the road. Against the pavement, lilting slightly, was a big black beast of a motorbike, gilded with metal so highly polished that it was giving the moonlight competition. Yurio stepped aside, the movement a rough throw of a thing. “Come in, then.” 

In the half-heartbeat between the man stepping in and the door whipping shut behind him, Yurio suddenly found himself colliding with the wall of the hall. His back slammed against it, and the dull ache echoed around his hollow bones as he let himself slip to the floor. Propped up on one elbow, his chest spasming tightly, Yurio saw precisely how he’d ended up there. 

Or, rather, he saw the nebulous sprawl of nightsky wings. There was no ambient sway to them, no _inhale-exhale;_ they were rigid slices, tower walls. Because there Yuuri, of all people, was stood in a half-lunge. Yurio shifted around just enough to see that the dragon’s eyes had spilt into void. The man, the stranger, threw one shoulder back, then the other, and then Yurio saw wings the likes of which he’d never seen before; they were like two great cobwebs, chandelier things, and they were of such a deep black that it led Yurio to question the existence of colour. They looked like running and screaming. They weren’t beautiful. 

“It’s _you._ ” Yuuri’s voice was a hiss, a gunshot of a sound, and Yurio felt his blood freeze in his veins because he’d never, not in his not inconsiderable experience, heard anyone sound so furious. So _deadly._ It burnt cold. “It’s _you_ I’ve been smelling on him.” Without looking at the dragon slayer, Yuuri asked, “Yurio, have you seen this man before? Do you know him?” 

Unable to piece it all together, and too dazed to say something like _I don’t need you to fucking look out for me_ , Yurio just shook his head and, after a moment, let out a gravelly, “no, I haven’t.” And then he just blinked because of all the strange things to have happened to Yuri Plisetsky, this might possibly have been the strangest. “Should I?” 

“It’s not a cat I’ve been smelling on you.” And Yuuri’s voice was a snarl, deep, throaty. He sounded _draconic_. In that moment, Yurio could see the fire in him. “It’s _him_.” 

“I haven’t hurt anyone,” the man put in casually, like this was the way he normally introduced himself to people. “I’ve just been-” 

“Stay _away_ from my young.” 

“I am _not_ your young,” Yurio mumbled, dragging himself to his feet. The stranger tried to catch his eye, with a raised eyebrow and a slice of a smirk; Yurio answered him by tugging his _misericorde_ out his pocket and twirling it lazily around, a nursery rhyme movement. He stepped forwards, only to be swept back by one of Yuuri’s wings. The movement left no room for argument. 

There was a clutter of sound as Phichit and Viktor spilled into the hallway, Phichit with his arms splayed outwards, forming a barrier as he tried to keep Viktor back. Viktor kept trying to push forward, but the prophet held his ground. Windmilling his _misericorde,_ Yurio backed up to them, a line of defence. _Protect Viktor._ It had been branded into his bones since, well. He couldn’t remember a time when _protect the Chosen One_ hadn’t been the thread tying everything in him together. Everything glazed over for Yurio, glassy, settled in pinprick clarity. His breathing went subterranean. The only thing he could feel was the rigid bite of the handle of his _misericorde_ as his hand squeezed around it. He had slipped into that breath-soft ambience of battle. All of the heaviness evaporated, and Yurio became what he had been carved into. 

 _Yes_ , he thought, _this is more like it_. 

“Yuuri!” It was Viktor. Not for the first time, Yurio felt abundantly grateful that the older man did not have his _shashka._ “Let me _through,_ Phichit, I need to-” 

“No, you don’t,” Phichit whispered, “this is fine. It’s normal. A territorial thing.” 

Be it because Phichit had said it or because there was little else he _could_ do, Viktor stopped struggling. His feet were apart, though, loosely planted, a springing position. 

And then, of all of the things that Yurio had never imagined seeing, Yuuri _pounced_ forwards. The stranger met him, the corners of their wings hooking around one another in something far too sharp to be called an embrace. Yuuri hissed low in the back of his throat, a prelude to something. The ice dragon melted his hands against the stranger’s face, and from each finger a map of ice sprawled outwards, growing, warping, twisting into a network of blue, the colour of a dead man’s lips. The stranger’s wings shot back in on themselves, and the lack of resistance made Yuuri stumble. Ice melted from the stranger’s face, leaving behind blotches of acrid red. 

With a cataclysmic jolt, Yurio realised that the stranger was looking at him. His eyes were spills of ink, two voids that invited Yurio to drown in their eternal nothingness. They looked like how Yurio had found himself feeling, more and more, since the showdown in the alleyway all of those months ago. 

“Hey. _Hey.”_ Yuuri sunk down into his shoulders, the curve of him serpentine. “Don’t look at him. I’ve heard of dragons like you, who like playing with their food. Well, no. You’re not. He is under _my_ protection.” In that one statement, in that one immovable burst of sincerity, Yuuri hadn’t sounded like Yuuri at all. He had sounded _powerful_. And it was all for _Yurio_. “Get out. Get out _now,_ and I won’t go after you.” 

“Go after me?” The stranger bit a hand into his hip, slouching easily to the side. The red was starting to breathe from his face, and Yurio noticed sparks spitting from his fingertips. Yuuri must have noticed them too because, a beat later, he was blowing softly through the net of his lips. It wasn’t so much that everything went cold, no, it was more like all warmth ceased to exist. The stranger snapped his fingers – but nothing happened. He tried again, like a drunk toying with a broken lighter. Nothing. “What did you _do_?” 

“Leave, now, or I’ll put you out permanently.” 

The stranger growled, and the noise rippled throughout his body. Yuuri charged forwards, slamming the man weightily against the wall, and then Yuuri himself was crashing backwards, all but airborne by the force of his opponent’s throw. Where he hit the opposing wall a lightning bolt crack shot up. A slither of warmth whispered itself back into the room, and where the stranger stepped forwards, scorch marks licked up the wallpaper. Yuuri’s chest was heaving, reaching, and his entire body shook with the force of it. He shut his eyes, for just a moment, and Yurio watched as a haze of ice stormed across the floor, up the opposite wall, and then bridged outwards, coiling tightly around the other dragon’s arms and hauling him back, _hard_. It snaked its way around the newcomer’s throat and _no_ , Yurio shook his head, _this is all wrong this isn’t Yuuri_. But then something dark tore through Yurio because _of course it is he’s a dragon and they’re all the same really, deep down._  

The ice creaked to a stop, its prickly fingers cutting lines around the shape of the stranger’s eyes, a frosty kind of masquerade. The man, who was scarcely anything more than a boy, looked _afraid._ And in that fear he looked young, lost, vulnerable. 

Yurio took Yuuri’s wings folding in on themselves as his cue to pocket his _misericorde._ He watched, everything in him vacuous and static, as Yuuri glanced from the newcomer to Phichit. He tilted his head in that puppy-dog look but right then, with his eyes full of black smoke and a teenager in his chokehold, Yurio didn’t dare consider it stupid. 

“Are you two _quite_ finished?” Phichit’s voice was a light, airy cursive as he dropped his arms. Viktor barrelled forwards, but Yuuri took one step back, looking down at his hands as though they were knives. “Good. Let him go, Yuuri. He’s safe, I promise.” Yuuri’s head shot up, his eyes on Phichit, his mouth loosely open. “Hey,” Phichit clicked his fingers, “I _promise_. I’ve never broken a promise to you before, have I?” A slight, dazed shake of the head. “This is Otabek Altin. You can let him go now, Yuuri. I promise. He won’t hurt anyone. Yurio’s safe.” 

Those seemed to be the magic words, for ice melted back into the wall, down to the floor, and shrivelled back up into Yuuri's shadow. The man, Otabek, stumbled forwards, rubbing a hand over his neck. With smug satisfaction, Yurio noticed that Otabek’s sunglasses had fallen to the floor and gotten smashed in the fray. 

“Jesus, Phichit,” Otabek panted out, “couldn’t you have said all of that before?” 

“Oh, I could have. But you didn’t bring a dish. Besides,” Phichit smiled brightly, “I thought it would be good for you to experience, first hand, precisely _who_ you’re dealing with. In case you go getting any ideas.” 

Yurio’s face sank into a scowl because that was his default expression, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do now. It melted off of his face, however, at seeing Viktor stood with Yuuri, at how their hands were clasped tightly together, at the way Viktor was touching a soft kiss to his dragon’s hair. Yurio’s immediate thought was a plume of _that’s what home is_ and it stung like longing, in stretching, vacuous ways. His secondary thought was an ache because Yuuri was hurting in some way, and he found that he didn’t want Yuuri to be hurting. They were, after all, a pack. 

“I’m sorry,” Otabek mumbled, and Yurio found that his voice sounded the way chocolate tastes when it’s been left in the window on a midsummer day. “I didn’t mean to cause any kind of alarm.” The stranger wet his lower lip. “And I’m not _playing with my food_ , with all due respect. I’ve been tailing Yuri,” his gaze narrowed down to Yurio, and heat itched irritably up the dragon slayer’s cheeks. _Anger. I am angry._ “Because Phichit told me to. And my cat is _very_ fond of him.” 

“ _Your_ cat?” Yurio blinked. 

“We can talk cats later,” Phichit interrupted, “but I think, for now, introductions are in order. Everyone, this is Otabek Altin. He already knows who all of you are. He’s on our side. And, starting on Monday, he’ll be training with the Shield.” He tilted his head upwards as though waiting to be crowned. “As Yurio’s training partner.” 

 _“What?_ ” 

“You heard me.” Yurio curled his hands into fists lest they reach for his _misericorde_ and slash it through Phichit’s stupid, smug throat. 

“It would be an honour,” Otabek offered, stepping forwards, and he wasn’t quite smiling. Yurio stood his ground. “It would be an honour to train with you, Yuri. I’ve seen you in the field. You really are an excellent slayer.” 

“Tell me something I _don’t_ know.” Yurio tossed his head so that the curtain of his hair sliced sharply away. “Phichit, I don’t want a partner.” 

“Oh, but Yurio, this isn’t about what you _want_.” 

Before Yurio could grit out something suitably biting, Otabek was on the move. All eyes were on him, a set of question marks, but then Yurio heard it; a snuffle-scratch sound against the front door. Otabek opened it and there she was; the cat that Yurio had come to think of as being his. He felt himself melt a little bit. The cat weaved tightly between Otabek’s ankles, nuzzling her face indulgently into his jeans. Otabek looked from his – not Yurio’s – cat in the same way that Yurio had seen Yuuri look at Makkachin, like they were listening to a song that no human could hear, and then the cat was padding across to Yurio with a soft, arched _meow_. 

Yurio was vaguely aware of Phichit attempting covertness as the prophet ushered Yuuri and Viktor back through to the kitchen, under the pretence of needing help with the washing up. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was being left alone with a dragon and his cat, but Yurio had learnt not to question most of the things that Phichit did – usually because he wouldn’t answer, but sometimes because the answer would only lead to more confusion. 

The cat jolted onto her hind legs, flicking her head against Yurio’s hand, but no. He couldn’t let himself drop down to his knees, fuss over her, tell her all of his secrets, brace his fingers in her fur. He couldn’t let his guard down. 

“She likes you.” Yurio kept his eyes on the cat, not deigning to look at the dragon. “Her name is Puss.” 

“That’s not a name,” Yurio raised his eyes, slowly, “that’s what she is.” He paused. “Her name is _Tsarina_.” He pulled himself to his full height by the chin, an open invitation to a challenge. 

“Okay. I think that suits her better, anyway.” Otabek nodded. “You can pet her if you want.”

“I know I can.” 

“Then, why aren’t you?” Otabek blinked, his irises settling to a barky brown – like logs on a fire. Everything about the newcomer was warm, and Yurio hated himself for finding it inviting but how could he help it when he’d been living in ice for so long? “I’m not going to hurt you, you know.” 

Yurio snorted. He made a production of kneeling down, of knotting his fingers through the powderpuff of snowfall fur, eyes darted to Otabek. The cat, Tsarina, rolled out a purr. 

“You? Hurt me?” Yurio shook his head with a bite of breathy laughter. “I’d like to see you try.” 

It was the most he’d felt like himself for a while. 

 

* * *

  

The Northern Hemisphere was off. It always seemed to be whenever Phichit paid Yakov a visit these days, and he felt vaguely flattered by his apparent capability of being regarded as such an extreme nuisance as to require pre-emptive numbing. 

“You’ll stick to your word?” 

“Of course.” Yakov, sat behind the authoritarian expanse of his desk like an official portrait, drained his crystal cut glass. The contents was clear. “The Gospel According to Phichit Chulanont and all that, right?” 

“Right.” 

“But _this,_ ” Yakov drifted his empty glass through the air in a sweeping, all-encompassing arc, “is _not_ according to Phichit Chulanont. It’s according to Otabek Altin. And he’s a dragon, not a prophet.” 

Phichit bit his lip, hard enough to leave a semicolon of a mark. He was tired – _aren’t we all_ – having stayed up the majority of the night, first of all trying to persuade Yuuri that, _seriously,_ Otabek posed no risk to Yurio, and second of all, after everyone had left, trying to figure out what to do about the damage done to his house in the draconic fray. On the latter point, he had decided to do nothing. It wasn’t like he would be staying there for much longer anyway. 

The glaring light of the office stuttered. It felt like a fitting metaphor. But now was not the time for making metaphors out of mundanity. 

“I was right, wasn’t I? About Yuuri Katsuki. He greeted the sword like an old friend, did he not?” Yakov looked down into the unblinking eye of his empty glass. It was the only answer Phichit needed. “ _Trust_ me, Yakov. Otabek Altin is _not_ the enemy.”

“Really? Because I have a folder this thick,” Yakov gestured with his hands, “telling me otherwise. There’s a hardly a Shield in Europe that doesn’t know about Otabek Altin – he leaves a trail of blood and fire and death wherever he goes.” 

“You're being melodramatic.” Phichit rolled his eyes. “He’s got stronger morals than most slayers I’ve met. And he’s gone vegetarian. Think about it. He’s been in St Petersburg for almost a _year_. He’s killed no human. Don’t we believe in second chances?” There was a pause that dragged on like a greying beach, and Phichit watched Yakov’s eyes wander to the gilded, ornate photo frame on his desk. “He’s just a boy,” Phichit started, his voice low and soft, “only nineteen years old. He’s changed, and he wants to help. He’s had enough of fire and death.” 

“Haven’t we all.” 

There was a production of creaks and aches as Yakov made the trek over to his globe that wasn’t a globe. Phichit watched him slosh a measure of vodka into his glass, and wondered if this was where they were all heading; cynicism, bitterness, and too much to drink by eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning. But no, Phichit shook his head, he would not end up like that. He would not let time chip away his softness into sharp edges. 

Yakov did not head back to his desk. He stayed stood by his globe, gazing at the same painting he’d had on his wall for the past thirty years as though he’d never seen it before. In another world, Phichit thought, Yakov might have been one of those old men who walk to the same park every day and sit on the same bench by the same pond, feeding the same ducks with the same stale chunks of bread. 

“Come on then.” Yakov’s voice was rough as brick. “The Gospel According to Otabek Altin. Preach to me.” 

“Just as slayers are no longer your only allies, dragons are no longer your only enemies.” Phichit eased himself to his feet, needing to turn the tension kinetic. “On his travels, Otabek came across information that has led him to believe, as I now do, that some slayers are independently aligning themselves with. With the enemy. With the Big Bad.” 

“They want to be on the winning side.” Yakov’s back was still to Phichit, facing the painting, and it went stiff, rigid, pulled to his full height. 

“No. It’s more than that. The Prophecy is no great secret. A lot dragons don’t put much weight in it, and those that do, well, most of them don’t know about Yuuri. But some of them do. And those that do are _very_ powerful indeed. And they are _scared._ ” Phichit started to pace, his fingers running over themselves and threading. He had Yakov’s attention, but now that he had it, he found that the words that had been rushing at him had now evaporated. Next time, he told himself, he was definitely going to bring along a PowerPoint presentation. “These slayers, they think that the _save us all_ is permanent. And if mankind is permanently safe from dragons, where does that leave slayers?”

“With a hell of a lot of spare time on their hands.” Yakov turned around, and the riddles cut into his face seemed deeper somehow, archaeological. “I can’t, you understand, call around the other Shields. First of all, they wouldn’t appreciate being snooped on. And even if they did, they would know we’ve been in cohorts with dragons, and everything will have been for nothing. They’d shut us down. My head would be on a silver platter. Literally.” 

“I.” Phichit sighed in steam. “I know. Which is why you need to step up their training. I want Otabek to train with your elite team. I want him to train with Yuri Plisetsky, as a pair.” 

“Oh?” Yakov raised an eyebrow, a tease of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yuri hasn’t had a training partner since he was a preteen. He’s much more of an… independent worker.” 

“By which you mean he’s a raging asshole.” 

Yakov raised his glass in a kind of _touché_ gesture. He strolled back over to his desk, but did not sit down. Today, the office smelt more of manufactured lemon than of that deep, new-car-leather-and-chocolate scent that usually drifted around Yakov. The dilating sharpness of it got up Phichit’s nose. 

“Are you sure that this Otabek character wouldn’t be more suited to Mila,” Yakov mused. He bridged his hands against his desk, his fingertips pressing in. “She would be able to keep him in line. I’ve never met a man who’d dare to cross her.” 

“No.” Phichit’s voice was granite. “It has to be Yurio. They need each other.” He paused, weighing something up in his mind; he knew he couldn’t give away all of his cards, and that to say too much would be to break the rules, but the words were pressing hard against his throat. But no. He was a prophet. He was a professional. “It’s important.” 

Yakov’s lips pressed together and outwards, ever so slightly, his eyes resting shut, before he said, “why?” 

“That, Yakov, is for me to know.” He pressed a smile to his face, tugged it up into his cheeks. “And for you to find out.” 

There was nothing more to be said. Phichit knew he had Yakov – the vague blankness that signalled defeat told him that – and thus his job here, for the moment at least, was done. He gave a slight dip of his head, and turned to leave the office. 

“Phichit.” The addressed stopped and looked over the jut of his shoulder. Yakov’s eyes were down, on his desk, on the photograph. “Do we all make it out of this alive?” 

There was a swollen sort of ache to the old man’s voice, and it resonated throughout the office in ripples. Everything inside of Phichit rang with it; evaporated and pushed up into his chest. Because, no, this wasn’t fair. Not on anyone. Especially, Phichit thought, not on Yakov. 

But he walked on. One pace closer to the door, back to his former employer. His reached for the door handle. And no. No, he had to say _something_ because he wasn’t cruel. He was not the same kind of man that Yakov had once been. 

“I can’t tell you that, Yakov. You know I can’t.” 

“Can’t,” the slayer’s voice was a snarl, and it made Phichit feel that little bit better, “or won’t?” 

“Both. Trust me. I’m doing you a kindness.”

  

* * *

  

The concrete floor gnawed into Otabek’s muscles in a droning way, all the more painful for its dull monotony. His shoulder blades and hips dug backwards into it as his back arched, but it was no good – unless he wanted to exert himself into the realms of draconic strength, but no, that wouldn’t be fair. _A game without rules is no fun_. 

So he stopped squirming, stopped kicking out, and blinked up at the cause of his current predicament. Yuri Plisetsky, haloed into bioluminescence by the floodlights of the Shield elite training hall, was sat on Otabek’s chest. Or, rather, he was straddling it and he was just heavy enough to be real, the heaviness coming from some kind of core strength rather than weight. Otabek just blinked up at him, at his blond hair and green eyes and angles, and it was one of those moments where he suspected the younger teen of beauty. Up close, like this, yes, Yuri Plisetsky _was_ beautiful – in the same way that a fire is, or a pool of blood in the moonlight. Or maybe _beautiful_ wasn’t the right word. _Mesmerising,_ Otabek thought, _like when you can’t look away from a car crash._  

Two things were at the forefront of Otabek’s mind. The first, was that Yuri Plisetsky was _looking_ at him and it felt like being mapped out, not quite sized up or scrutinised, but it still burnt. The second, was that Yuri Plisetsky was holding a knife to his throat. With every breath he took, with every time he tried to swallow moisture into his mouth, the horizon line of Yuri’s _misericorde_ kissed at his skin. 

And then, quick as a breeze, Yuri was on his feet, twirling his dagger in barbed wire coils. Rubbing at his neck, Otabek joined him. If he had cared to look away from Yuri (which he didn’t - the human was far too interesting for that) he would have seen Mila swiping at Georgi with her battle axe, blind-folded, and Georgi dodging, just in time, to barked pearls of wisdom from Yakov. In the corner of the room, Yuuri and Viktor were clashing swords, and then stopping, Yuuri demonstrating something, and then starting again; cyclical. As it was, however, Otabek’s vision had narrowed down to be heliocentric to Yuri Plisetsky. To those organic green eyes that enticed him in purely because they _didn’t_ – and also, Otabek could admit to himself, because he was, in general, a sucker for green eyes.

“Again?” Otabek flexed his hands, folding them into fists hard enough to make the bones crack. 

“Again.” Yuri tossed his _misericorde_ from hand to the other like a daydream. His lips lilted into a smirk, and Otabek felt something in his chest get heavy-tight. “I won’t go so easy on you this time.”

They squared up, and Otabek watched as that sheen, that lucidity breathed over Yuri’s eyes like molten glass. It sparked like flint. And then, Otabek waited. Yuri expected, from their previous sparring match, Otabek to go for him – but no. Not this time. He would hold his ground, and Yuri would come to him, and he would sweep Yuri off of his feet. 

The smirk on Yuri’s face evaporated into a thin line, and then sunk into a scowl. Otabek watched as Yuri’s breathing mutated from a soft, tidal drawl into something harder, harsher. It occurred to Otabek that, perhaps, maybe he _should_ make the first move. Something about this was quite clearly distressing the young slayer, and Otabek had seen Yuri distressed enough times to know that it was never over nothing, but he held his ground. _I have to show him that he’s not the only strong one._

“Why aren’t you coming at me?” It was a demand rather than a question, and it jumped a smile to Otabek’s lips. 

“Why aren’t _you_ coming at _me_?” 

“Don’t answer a question with a question, douche bag.” Yuri slouched himself out of a fighting stance, one hand biting into his hip and the other writing daydreams into the air with his dagger. “What’s the matter? Are you scared?” 

“Of you?” Otabek stepped forwards, and Yuri did not step back – although his face melted into something open, curious, a dropped book. “Absolutely fucking terrified.” 

Otabek could tell by the peaks of pink rising in his cheeks that Yuri had taken the statement for what it was; a heartfelt compliment. Yuri repaid him by slashing out with his dagger. 

Maybe Yuri had thought that he was going to catch Otabek by surprise, but no, Otabek saw it coming, and he grabbed Yuri by the wrist. He twisted, just hard and fast enough to send the _misericorde_ clattering to the ground. Yuri kicked out at Otabek, his boot stamping into the dragon’s gut, but Otabek had been expecting it; he moved with the impact, used the coiled power of it to turn them, flinging Yuri out by the arm. In a split second, he had the younger teenager pinned to the ground, and, okay, so maybe he’d used just a _little_ bit of draconic strength. He wasn’t exactly sure how it had happened, but he was straddling Yuri by the waist, both of the slayer’s hands clasped in his as he pressed them into the concrete. 

The second Otabek let up on the pressure, Yuri was springing upright, still full of fight, full of fire. All it took was for Otabek to press down on his chest the right way, more than a shove but not quite a punch, and the slayer stilled. For a constellation of heartbeats, they just looked at one another, Yuri’s eyes so wide and green and,  _cold_. Otabek found himself wanting to warm them, wanting to erase the charcoal smudges under them. He reached out to do so, half in a daydream, just to rub the pad of his thumb against the half-moon of sleeplessness under Yuri’s left eye, and Yuri wasn’t moving away, but then Viktor whirlwinded past, with not one, but two _shashkas_ flailing about in his hands. 

“Vitya! Give that back!” It was Yuuri, chasing after his human, laughter in his voice. Tilting his head to the side, Otabek sat back and watched the exchange. 

“Hmmm, okay, I’ll give it back.” Viktor halted as suddenly as a full-stop, Yuuri nearly crashing into him. The Ice Dragon reached out, but Viktor held the swords up above his head, curving his body around slightly so that he almost caved over Yuuri. “It’ll cost you a kiss.” 

Beneath Otabek, Yuri heaved out a retching sound of disgust. Suddenly reminded that he was, in fact, using the ethereal young dragon slayer as a bench, Otabek sprung up to his feet. He offered his hand and, to his mild surprise, Yuri took it. Tugging Yuri to his feet was as easy as the breeze picking up a feather. When their eyes met, there was a bridge of mutual respect. 

“So,” Otabek started, dropping Yuri’s hand, “are you going to become with friends with me, or not?” 

As he plucked up his _misericorde,_ Yuri threw him a, “Well, I don’t have burning urge to kill you. And I like your cat.” Otabek had been observing the blond long enough to know that this was Yuri-Plisetskish for _yes._ Standing up, brushing off his knees with one hand and twirling his dagger with the other, Yuri scowled in the direction of his two, as far as Otabek could tell, guardians. They were kissing – Yuuri as red as a fresh burn, Viktor leaning down into him, the two of them melting together. “Look at them. All over each other. I have to put up with that at home too, y’know. There’s no fucking escape.” 

“They’re in love.” The words drifted from Otabek and he wasn’t exactly sure why. 

“Yeah, well.” Yuri poked Otabek’s chest, and the stubby hardness of it spilt into almost-pain. “Don’t go getting any cute ideas.” 

This time, when Yuri attacked, Otabek was not expecting it.

 

* * *

  

Viktor wasn’t sure if he had ever seen anything so beautiful in all of his life, although that was a goalpost that got moved every time he looked at Yuuri because every time he looked at Yuuri the dragon somehow found a way to be even more beautiful than before. 

The sight before him however, Viktor was fairly certain, was the pinnacle of beauty as conceivable to the human mind. Because there Yuuri was, _flying_ in small circles around their forest clearing. The clouds were thick smudges of charcoal in the sky, and the closest thing to the stars that Viktor could grasp was the living shimmer of Yuuri’s wings – and, really, who needed the stars when he had that? The riptide whipped up by his boyfriend’s wings licked through Viktor’s hair, sending it whipping around in haywire tufts. He tossed his head in a sharp semi-circle, slashing the silver out of his eyes. In his hand, he held a dragon-chilled beer, half empty, and _yes this is exactly how life is supposed to be_. 

He checked his watch – Yurio and Yuuri (and, by extension, Makkachin) had bought it for him for his last birthday, and it never left his wrist – and his smile swelled to take up the entirety of his face. Three minutes of controlled flight in motion. It was a record. 

“Yuuri! _Drakonchik!”_ He waved his beer in the air. “Three minutes! You’ve been up there for _three minutes!_ ” 

The breeze beating back Viktor’s hair and making a storm out of his trench coat dropped to nothing. Because now there were no stars in the sky, and Yuuri was falling like a rock through water. Viktor threw his beer can to the grass, and leapt forwards, squeezing his arms into strength. This was not the first time Yuuri’s wings had decided that _actually no we don’t feel like flying today_ , and Viktor racing around, ready to catch him, felt almost like a game. Because Viktor would always be there to catch his dragon. Because Viktor was the hero, and heroes never lose. Especially not on Date Night.

Sure enough, Yuuri thudded neatly into Viktor’s arms and it was like two puzzle pieces slotting together, a hand into a glove. _He belongs in my arms for forever and always._ He cradled Yuuri there, tucked tight to his chest in a bridal-style hold, leaning down so that their noses touched, and Yuuri made a sound that was half sigh, half giggle. To Viktor, it sounded like music. Viktor nuzzled their noses together, and was rewarded with another gilded bloom of sound. It wasn’t so much that Yuuri sounded delighted – which he did – but that he sounded _content._ There was no heaviness. Viktor touched a kiss to his dragon’s forehead as he placed Yuuri carefully on his feet, keeping one arm wound loosely around his partner’s waist. 

“Thank you,” Yuuri murmured, leaning into an easy half-cuddle. It felt like lazy mornings and milky coffee and hazy sunlight. “For catching me.” 

“I’ll always catch you, _Drakonchik._ ” Viktor touched his face into the nest of Yuuri’s hair, breathing in the scent of the shampoo that was also entwined in his own and it turned the rope of his veins into fine golden thread. “Always.” He stepped away after a moment, determined to take up the role of coach that he assumed every Date Night. When Yuuri, cheeks a frostbitten red, reached to take his hand, Viktor twined their fingers. “Now. What was with your wings up there? They haven’t given up on you in _weeks_. What’s distracting you?” 

“I’m worried,” Yuuri mumbled after an ellipsis. Viktor stepped closer again, the waver of Yuuri’s voice making his insides ache. “About Otabek. No. About Yurio.” Yuuri frowned out a sigh, the expression coming from the pinpoint centre of his forehead. “No. About both of them. Together.” 

“Are you?” Viktor tilted his head. “I’m not.” 

“You aren’t?” 

And, okay, so maybe Viktor could understand the bright look of shock on Yuuri’s face, but he really wasn’t worried. In theory, Viktor should have been the first one to march up to Otabek, _shashka_ in hand, demanding that he stay the hell away from his charge, from the kid he’d taken in off of the streets almost six years ago and tucked together. But he hadn’t, and nor did he intend to. 

So Viktor shook his head. Yuuri dropped the older man’s hand in favour of making a wide gesture with both of his palms that sort of resembled an explosion. His eyes, which had been a Murano glass amethyst, filtered into something watery, something colder. 

“Come _on_ , Viktor,” Yuuri pleaded, his voice tugged up with a high peak of disbelief. “You’ve seen the way that dragon looks at him. You must have done. And the way they spar together. They’re teenagers, Vitya, you know how this ends.” 

“Yes,” Viktor nodded. It felt like warmth, seeing Yuuri so desperate to defend Yurio. _Home_ and _family_ sprung to mind. He couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve seen the way Beka-” 

“We’re giving him a nickname?” 

“Yes. It’s what Yurio calls him. I’ve seen the way Beka looks at Yurio. But I’ve also seen the way Yurio looks at Beka, when he thinks nobody’s watching.” But Viktor had been, over the past fortnight. Of course he had. It was his business and his pleasure to always have one eye on Yurio. 

“And how is that?” 

“Like things aren’t so grey anymore.” At the _adorable_ tilt of Yuuri’s head, the inquisitive swelling of his eyes, Viktor grinned. “Besides, I’ve seen the way Beka looks at _you_. You’ve definitely put the frighteners on him.”

  

* * *

 

“You’re a fucking moron, Beka. If we make it out of this alive, I’m going to fucking kill you. It will be slow and painful and I will feed you in itty bitty pieces to Tsarina.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic, Yura.” 

“You told me,” Yuri’s voice was a whip of a whisper, slashing out as sharply as his _urumi_ , “you could only smell _one.”_

“I _could_ only smell one.” 

“Well clearly fucking _not_.”

Yurio swept out with his _urumi_ , licks of silver fire lashing out, the baying teeth of hellhounds, demonstrating his point. Because there wasn’t one dragon, oh no. There were three. Three of the bastards, shards of fire splintering from their fingertips and glinting off of their open-ribcage grins, advancing closer, _laughing_ every time one of the razor tentacles of Yurio’s _urumi_ painted a Van Goghian swirl before them as though it were a bad joke. It had been a long time since Yurio had encountered dragons who didn’t know who he was. If nothing else, it was at the very least a refreshing change of pace.

They were cornered, and it was all Beka’s stupid fucking fault. _I can only smell one_ he’d said. _Let’s lead it down this alley and have fun_ he’d said. And like a prize moron, Yurio had agreed because – well. Because Otabek Altin had suggested it, and when Otabek spoke it was like smoke. Besides, _fun_ had sounded good. Stress relief. Maybe it was sadistic – in fact, Yurio _knew_ it was – but he’d been looking forward to kicking the shit out of one of the bad guys. With Otabek. It would have been something to hold onto when the dark got darker. Yurio was pretty sure he was probably going to Hell; by this point, it was go big or go home. 

So that had been the plan: lead the _one solitary single_ dragon down the alley, lull it into a false sense of security, and then, _wham_ , send it on a one-way trip to the underworld. It should have been fine. It should have been _fun_. But no. Otabek was a fucking moron, and now there they were, the two of them, cornered in the jaws of some piss-stained St Petersburg alley by a trio of dragons. Yurio should have known not to trust Otabek’s judgement; it was the Kazakhstani fire-breather’s first patrol, having been deemed competent enough after just over a month of intensive training at Yurio’s side. 

Yurio flicked his wrist and the _urumi_ cut fresh lines into the air. The dragon at the centre of the advancing trio – a rose of a woman, cut of blood and leather – hissed as the tip of one of the _urumi's_ fingertips carved an exclamation point into her cheek. The noise triggered a smirk to spring to Yurio’s face, cast in shadow by the vacuous yawn of his hood. 

He glanced to the side, one eye stuck on the enemy, and what he saw almost sent both his _urumi_ and his _misericorde_ (which was spinning helicopter circles in his left hand, fast enough to be a blur, an afterthought) clattering to the ground. Otabek had a cigarette hanging loosely in his lips, and was currently engaged in the task of lighting it with the crystalline flame dancing on the tip of his forefinger. 

Otabek took a drag, letting the nicotine saturate himself, before noticing Yurio’s look of stunned shock. He blinked once, twice, and then exhaled. His smoke was cancer black, globules of fire spitting in it. 

“What?” His forehead creased with the word, but there was a slight flicker to his right eyelid that told Yurio everything he needed to know. 

“You know, Beka,” Yurio drawled, his smirk back and deeper, more sincere, something _awful,_ “every cigarette you smoke takes five minutes off your life.” 

Otabek’s lips peeled back just enough to show the cigarette clenched between his teeth. He opened them like a trap, and the cigarette fell in slow motion, a kind of starfall grace to it that made it the perfect counterpoint to the ripples of Yurio’s _urumi._ A flicker of _fun_ filtered into Yurio’s veins because, yes, this was what he was made for. 

All eyes were on the cigarette as it fell, and when it hit the floor, as sure as a promise, everything suffocated into the stillness of anticipation. The black eyes of the trio were unblinking. All termors of fire evaporated. Yurio’s _urumi_ draped the cobblestones like shorn sheaths of Medusa’s hair. Everything was still, the weight of the moment pressing down on that one cigarette. An explosion of silence. 

Nothing happened. The cigarette fizzled out, as all cigarettes do, and it was nothing more than it was. 

Half a breath passed, Yurio’s fingers itching around his handle. Waiting for a sign, a trigger, and then it hit him: _why the fuck am I trusting him?_ But he didn’t stop. It was disconcerting. It made his stomach hurt. 

But the half breath was all it took because that was all Otabek needed to scrape the walls of his lungs, and then he was breathing out through the tight halo of his lips and it was _fire_. A wall of it, _a shield,_ Yurio realised. Otabek’s hands, strong and warm and certain, splayed into stars in front of the dragon, and as Otabek pressed against the air, the wall of fire moved forwards. The trio of dragons hissed, and sent blasts of flame into the wall – but every projectile sent melted into the mass of heat like glass. A bead of sweat bled down Yurio’s cheek, his eyes watering against the swelter. 

“If you’re going to do something,” Otabek grunted out, his face creased into something like pain, “ _do_ it.” 

So Yurio did. 

He gave his _urumi_ an experimental lash and, of course, it split easily through the flames. _Maybe he isn’t such a moron after all_. 

Yurio bit through the fire with his _urumi,_ slithers of starlight against a burning sky, and it was different from cutting through air. His actions needed to be sharper, harder, more defined. The business end curled in on itself too quickly. The first six slashes barely breached the other side of Otabek’s wall. The seventh, however, found its target; the central dragon. One of the arms of his sword coiled around her neck, the others biting into her torso but doing nothing beyond creasing her leather jacket, and it stuck – the tiny chinks, Yurio knew, barbed into her skin. He yanked with his arm, hard, and she spiralled into the fire. Yurio couldn’t be precisely sure what had killed her – the squeeze of his _urumi_ or Otabek’s blaze – but she _had_ been killed. Lives had been saved. He hadn’t heard her scream over the roar of the fire, but he knew it was there. 

The remaining two dragons – a blocky woman, maybe in her early twenties, with a spit of green hair, and a man that resembled a key – didn’t seem to notice that they were breathing in the ashes of their leader. _They’re only dragons they don’t care about anyone but themselves they’re animals._ But then his eyes snagged on Otabek and things got complicated, so Yurio stopped thinking. He didn’t need to think to be able to kill. 

The death of the second woman was a whited-out blur to Yurio. A flick of his wrist and a howl of flame. It might have been a new way of killing, but in the end she died just the same. What did Yurio care? 

Suddenly, the wall of fire suckered backwards, filtering down to a plume of sparks that diffused in a cloud around Otabek. Instead of doing what his training told him to do and slash out immediately at the third, final dragon, Yurio listened to his instinct, and pivoted to be facing Otabek. The dragon’s lower lip was smudged with blood, and soot danced across his jaw in thumbprints. But he was okay, and something in Yurio that had been suspended up into the eaves of his throat dropped down into the cushion of his gut. 

Otabek’s movement was an imperceptible blur, like the moment between the slice of a cut and your body realising it ought to be bleeding, but suddenly he was in front of Yurio, almost nose-to-nose, and Yurio’s face carved into something sharp. But then Otabek was crashed into him, crushed against him, silhouetted by the slurp-hiss of fire.

Because Otabek Altin had just saved Yuri Plisetsky’s stupid, worthless life.

Because the third and final dragon, who had tiptoed clean off of Yurio’s train of thought, had sent a fireball right for him.

In the split second it took him to realise what had happened, Yurio flexed his wrist and slashed out. There was a fleshy _snap-click_ as all of the strands of his blade wrapped around the dragon’s neck and spun, unravelling skin down to the bone, making butter of the jugular. The thud of the body – because _that’s all it is_ – felt like a full-stop. 

And Yurio could breathe again. Apart from he _couldn’t_ because Otabek was still stood there, arms out to the side like a saviour, his chest heaving so hard that with every breath it rubbed against Yurio’s.

_He saved me._

For just a moment, scarcely even a heartbeat, their eyes met – to Otabek, in the moonlight, Yurio’s eyes seemed that little bit greener, like Gatsby's light; to Yurio, Otabek’s eyes seemed that little bit blacker, sucking all light in. Yurio told himself that the tight, breathless squirming in his chest was adrenaline. Or indigestion. He was _not_ Viktor. 

“What the _fuck_ was that?” 

Otabek blinked and, _oh great so it’s a dragon thing,_ tilted his head to the side, “what?” 

“Putting yourself in the line of fire. It was fucking stupid, shithead. You know how it works, right? If he had been more powerful than you, you would have.” And Yurio cut himself off, the words stoppered by something in his throat because _no this isn’t fair not him._ “It was a dick move, Beka.” 

Yurio planted his _misericorde_ firmly into his pocket, the action violent. With an artistic swish of his wrist, the limbs of his _urumi_ pulled up and coiled snugly around the handle, his fingers sheltered by the intricate plume of the handguard; he unzipped his jacket, and tucked it into one of the inside pockets. From within another he plucked out his phone; five texts from Viktor that were all a variation on _are you okay_. The warmth of it prickled. His eyes fixed on the four tiny, white numbers in the corner of the screen; _22:09. Time to clock off._  

So he gave Otabek a sound shove, and strutted to the open jaws of the alley. 

“Hey! Where are you going?” 

“Home. It’s gone ten o’clock. The Shield will have sent out another patrol by now.” Yurio didn’t even look back as he spoke. He didn’t need to, because before he’d even completed the throw of his next stride, Otabek was alongside him, close enough that Yurio could feel his warmth, like cupping his hands around a candle. _Great._ “What are you doing?” 

“Escorting you home. Viktor told me to, and he said I had to do what he says because he’s the Chosen One.” 

 On the walk home, he made sure to keep two paces ahead of Otabek. 

 

* * *

 

The training hall was a tomb. Darkness, even with Otabek’s heightened sense of sight, elongated it, turned it into a dried riverbed, a corpse of a place. The only light came from the dimmed sconces dotted above the weaponry wracks lining the walls, at regular intervals, but they only had a handprint glow. Without Mila laughing, without Viktor cooing over Yuuri, without Georgi garbling _please Anya_ down his phone, without the _swish_ of Yuuri’s _shashka_ , without Yakov grunting advice that made no real sense but _did_ , the place was too quiet. It was eerie, Otabek thought, but that was part of the charm. Because there _was_ charm to it, as there always is to uneasiness. The jump of your stomach as it ties itself into a knot. The tight squeeze of your chest. The numbness to your cheeks. _Adrenaline._  

Or maybe, Otabek mused, the charm came from the _reason_ he was there, at the Shield, at eleven o’clock at night. The reason being one Yuri Plisetsky.

Things had been strained between them over the past couple of days, ever since they had patrolled together, and Otabek didn’t _understand_ it. The younger teen wouldn’t talk to him beyond monosyllabic necessities such as ‘ _spar’_ or ‘ _up_ ’. When they did spar, Otabek had been letting Yuri win because there was something burning about it, about the way Yuri was going at him with absolutely everything, like the only thing that mattered was burning out. There had been no snark. No challenges. Hell, there had barely been any scowling. Never before had Otabek thought that he would miss being called a _moron_ as much as he had over the past two days. But he had. And he knew why he had. Otabek Altin was not a man who had time to lie to himself. What he didn’t understand was _Yuri’s_ why. The only clue he had was that, yesterday, the Ice Dragon had stormed over to him, put his cigarette out by virtue of proximity, and hissed _what have you done to him._ Otabek had simply shrugged because, of course, he hadn’t done anything. So he’d gone back into the training hall for another afternoon of sparring, letting Yuri win because there were worse ways to while away the hours than being pinned to the floor by Yuri Plisetsky. 

Otabek checked his watch – it was a smudge past eleven.  He started to stroll in slow, easy circles. The text had said _Otabek. Meet me @ Shield. 11._ and here he was, at the Shield, and it was eleven, and Yuri would be there soon. And Otabek, for all his insularity, knew what it meant to be meeting someone at night, in the dark, with no one else around. 

He could hear Yuri before he saw him; first in the papery _sheen_ of the elevator as it sunk down into the guts of the St Petersburg Shield like a bullet, and then in terms of the human’s heartbeat. It was not a pretty sound. It was not a lullaby. 

“You came.” It sounded like there should have been a question mark. Yuri’s voice was chalky, full of cracks and creaks. His face was cast in the shadow of his hood, but when Otabek turned to face him he just _knew_ that it was hiding something sharp and pale and painful. Something that was more a skull than a face, and it diffused through his veins like poison. _He needs to sleep._ “You came.” 

“Yes,” Otabek nodded, just once, earnest because _why wouldn’t I come when you call?_ “You asked me to meet you here.” 

“I know I did.” There should have been fire there, a spark, violence, a flash of silver, _anything_. But there wasn’t. There wasn’t anything. 

Otabek stepped towards him, because Yuri looked small in ways that he never should have looked small and Otabek just wanted to _protect_ him. No. He wanted to make Yuri not be small again. He wanted to see Yuri _burn_. So he stepped closer, and closer, and then stopped. Teeth dancing a comma into his lower lip, he reached out to brush back Yuri’s hood, only for the slayer to dart backwards. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” There was a satisfying snap to Yuri’s voice. He tossed his head to the side, the hood slipping off of his head to reveal the moonlight white of his thin cheeks, the cliff of his jaw, the rockpool bags under his eyes. 

“I was going to kiss you. That’s why you asked me here, isn’t it?” Otabek’s words were low and smudged, soft. 

“ _No_.”

  
“Oh.” Otabek tilted his head to the side, an amused smirk playing on his lips because Yuri was _burning_. “Is it because I’m a guy?”  

“No.” 

Otabek’s smirk spread and, reactionary to this, Yuri scowled. Yuri’s scowls weren’t something Otabek could be poetic about because they weren’t _like a rose_ or _as beautiful as each individual star_ , but there was something fundamentally imperfect about them, something impenetrable and gutsy that ruffled through Otabek like a sunset breeze through grass. _Cute_ was the word that came to mind, which was ridiculous, because Yuri Plisetsky was the single deadliest human he’d ever come across - not to mention the single most foul-tempered. But that ridiculousness, Otabek thought, was part of the charm of the whole thing. It felt like wanderlust. 

“Then,” Otabek’s voice was a flicked cursive, “why are we here?” 

“To fight.” 

“You want to spar?” Otabek blinked, his smirk drooping into a look of intense confusion. His voice was as low and soft and steady as ever because, well, in the grand scheme of things this was no big deal. His eyebrow jutted into the hook of a question mark. “At eleven o’clock at night?” 

“No.” Yuri’s hand bit into his hip. “I want to _fight_. No holds barred. I want to see what you can do. And then I want to show you,” Yuri stepped closer, and Otabek could taste his breath, “that you are _nothing_. Not to anyone. Not to me.” 

Otabek knew it should have hurt, but it didn’t. Because he could barely hear Yuri’s words for the pounding of the human’s heart, the way it sounded like a countdown to an explosion. If he tuned in, he could even make out the slight hitch to Yuri’s breathing, the way it was snagging and catching like brambles in the back of his throat. The younger teen was _scared_ and, although Otabek didn’t understand it, it was the only thing that mattered. 

His hand drifted forwards and his fingers hooked loosely around Yuri’s because _that’s what humans do when they are scared._ There was a static half-breath before Yuri yanked his hand away, whiplash sharp. And then the slayer slammed his hands against Otabek’s chest, hard enough to make the dragon stumble. 

Otabek caught his balance, his eyes widening to bullet holes because he just didn’t _understand._ Yuri shoved him again but, this time, Otabek was expecting it and he held his ground. Another shove, this time with Yuri’s hands curving into claws that hooked and twisted against Otabek’s shirt, grazing his skin. It hurt, but only on the surface. Yuri was making animal sounds, hisses and grunts and wet things. It hurt, and it saturated Otabek’s bones. 

“Why aren’t you hitting back?” Yuri punctuated the ragged tear of his voice with a punch to Otabek’s chest that wasn’t a punch. Not really. It fizzled out at the point of contact. “ _Fight_ me.” 

So Otabek did. He prized Yuri’s hands out of his shirt, the blond’s nails catching at his skin, and for a moment there was a power struggle, Otabek reining it in because, no, he didn’t want to fight with Yuri. Not like this. He gave a moment’s resistance, and then let the younger boy topple him over, as he had been doing for the past two days. _Let him win. Let him feel powerful. Let him feel in control._  

That should have been that. Yuri had Otabek pinned and that, thus far, had been the extent of their sparring matches. This, however, was a _fight_. And thus, straddling Otabek’s chest, Yuri started throwing punches. The first sunk against Otabek’s cheek, the ache of it vacuous as his body rushed to catch up to the pain of it. Otabek shot up his hand, however, to catch the second, squeezing his fingers around Yuri’s fist like a clasp. The human pulled and pushed and struggled, but Otabek didn’t let go. _He’ll get himself hurt_.

Yuri started scratching at Otabek’s wrist with his free hand, but it was no good. He sagged, a deadweight against Otabek’s chest that felt heavier than it actually was. The dragon waited a heartbeat, let it stretch out into a breath, and then let go of Yuri’s fist. The slayer, the man, the _boy_ didn’t move; statuesque in his decomposition. Otabek flicked his eyes to Yuri’s – only to find that the gates to Arcadian green had been locked tight shut. 

“Yura,” Otabek ventured. He sounded how his face felt. “It’s okay. I. I get it, I think. It’s alright to be scared.” 

“I’m not fucking _scared_.” Yuri jettisoned himself to his feet. “Not of you. Not of anyone. Not of anything.” 

“Okay.” Otabek got to his feet slowly, taking his time because everything about Yuri was _rushing crashing burning_. He held his hands out, the way he’d approached Tsarina for the first time. She had been hissing. “You’re not scared.” 

“I’m _not_.” Otabek watched as the younger teen slipped his _misericorde_ from his pocket and started twirling it in frenetic circles. “Why didn’t you fight back properly?” 

“Because I didn’t want to hurt you.” Briefly, Otabek thought that he should probably be calling Viktor or Yuuri or Viktor And Yuuri – but no. Yuri was having some kind of crisis, and he had chosen to share it with Otabek. “Why did you want me to?” 

Yuri scattered out a breathy snort before carving out, “because you’re a dragon. It’s what you _do_. I don’t like you.” 

“That’s okay.” 

“I fucking _hate_ you.” 

“That’s alright.” Otabek nodded, slowly. The _misericorde_ stopped spinning; the stillness of it was unnatural. “You like my cat, though.” He forced a smile, and the insincerity of it distorted his face. Yuri, he noticed, had settled his gaze against the cool slice of his dagger. “You can come see her, if you want. We’ll leave, right now, and head back to mine. And you can see Tsarina.” 

“I don’t want to see,” each word was a cataclysmic shift, “your stupid fucking cat.” 

And then Yuri was charging forwards, too fast, too hard, and he was _crying_. It was the fact that he was crying that made Otabek pause which, in turn, meant that, even if he _did_ tap into his draconic speed, he didn’t have time to get out of the way. So, again, he let Yuri bowl him over, let Yuri’s weight settle sharp-heavy on his chest. Because Yuri was _crying_. It was one of those moments when Otabek could suspect Yuri of beauty, and he did – right up until the slayer pressed the kiss of his _misericorde_ against the clammy skin of Otabek’s neck.

It wasn’t the thready sting of the blade against his neck, but rather the regiment of crystalline tears blurring down Yuri’s cheeks that made Otabek do it. _Maybe I should just give him what he wants._  

Flipping them over, when he let himself breathe into his fullest potential, was as easy as blinking. It was so quick, so _instant_ , that Yuri still had his _misericorde_ in hand, still pressed against the hollow of Otabek’s throat. The concrete was hard, Otabek knew, and so he made a point of cushioning one hand under Yuri’s head as they flipped. He leant his weight on his knees; Yuri seemed to be having enough trouble breathing without having a dragon sat on his chest. 

The dagger fell away from Otabek's skin like snow, and it almost felt like a loss. 

“Yes.” Yuri nodded to himself, his eyes moonlike in their wideness, unblinking. “Come on, then, _Beka_. Show me what you are.” 

Otabek held him there for a moment, just a moment, letting his face fall into the shadow of something deep because this wasn’t _right_. Sparks were biting at his fingertips as he dragged himself to his feet, stepping one, two, three paces away from Yuri because _he thinks I have it in me to hurt him._ And maybe he did, but he was fundamentally _better_ than that. Otabek was not an animal. Not in the ways that mattered. 

Yuri coiled his knees up into his chest, springing into standing with one fluid sweep of a movement. Otabek could hear his breathing, the way each inhale was fingernails through skin and each exhale a small scream. The blond boy held up his _misericorde_ and, for a suspended moment, Otabek readied himself for a fresh attack; he would stay there all night if he had to, if only it would help him _understand_. Yuri Plisestsky was not supposed to break like this – or maybe, that was precisely why he had. 

He could smell it before he saw it; blood. It was thick and sweet, intoxicating, and it was _Yuri’s_. Because there the youngest of them was – sixteen and twelve thirteenths – the tip of his dagger slicing through the soft, vulnerable skin of his palm. He was too still. It was the most sincere sort of calm Otabek had seen on him outside of Tsarina. Otabek shut his eyes and breathed in, right down into the depths of himself because Yuri’s blood smelt like a song, like a lullaby, like something pure and perfect. To taste it, Otabek was sure, would be to get as close as he ever would do to Heaven. 

When he opened his eyes, they were a black so bottomless as to be neverending. Smoke swirled in his lungs. Yuri’s palm was more blood than skin, and his teeth pricked at his gums but no. _No_. He caught green eyes – and _yes_ , Yuri _was_ beautiful – and he was back in Almaty, aged seven and five eighths, his fingers wrapped anxiously around the peeling paintwork of a playpark’s fence. 

The tips of Yuri’s fingers started to tremble, the movement so slight as to be a suggestion rather than a fact, and he let out a wrench of a noise. It tore through the silence. 

_A first aid kit. I need to find a first aid kit._

Otabek was fast and that didn’t help him in terms of direction, but he knew that had to be one somewhere in the Shield because, _come on_ , they let Viktor run around with swords. The lift was too slow, and all Otabek could think of was _Yuri’s bleeding_. He felt dizzy, like his skull was too big for his brain. He stormed through the main corridor, letting bolts of fire discharge around him because he had to get rid of it somehow, and it was the closest to worried he had ever been because _should I have left him down there on his own what if he hurts himself he needs me but what if he doesn’t should I call Viktor but no that might be wrong what if this all stays wrong I thought we were okay oh god Yuuri Katsuki is going to slaughter me._

A first aid kit was finally found at the main entrance, tucked in a safe-like box attached to the wall. By the time Otabek had wrestled the kit from it, the box was attached to the wall no more. 

By the time he got back to Yuri, the slayer was on the floor, curled in on himself, sobs ringing out in seismic gulps. For a moment, Otabek just watched him, the way everything about him was moving in some way; there was too much inside of Yuri Plisetsky. 

Otabek padded over, making his steps just loud enough to be heard. Yuri froze. And then, and then he was looking up at Otabek like a little lost child, and something in Otabek dilated, bled. Yuri was a solider, the fiercest around, and that was why Otabek respected him; but Yuri was also human, and that was what made him interesting. A well of blood was clotting against the younger man’s jacket where he’d pressed his hand, washing silver buttons into rubies. Otabek didn’t feel anything. 

“Y-you, I thought you’d gone.” Yuri took a deep breath, blinking at a glacial pace. “Why are you here?” 

“I couldn’t just leave you. You’re bleeding.” He gestured to the first aid kit. “Will you let me help you?” 

Just as it seemed Yuri wasn’t going to answer, the blond nodded. There were no sharp edges.

The following day, Yuri would be back at practice like normal, one hand bound tightly in a bandage, scowling and snarking. They would spar together, and Yakov would give them nothing but praise because they were  _good_ together. Yuuri would be watching Otabek more closely, Viktor would be watching Yurio more closely, and Mila would be watching both of them whilst muttering  _I wonder if Phichit's got a dragon for me up his sleeve somewhere._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter:
> 
> 1\. With the first section, I really wanted to recreate a kind of stereotypical concerned parents vs. angsty teen argument to show that they do have 'normal' family moments. I don't approve of the use of 'man up', but here I used it to try to show that Yurio is too hard on himself, that he holds himself to impossible standards and thus burning out/breaking down is inevitable. Does he mean what he says about Yuuri? Of course not - he's just under a lot of stress, and Yuuri's an easy target. He doesn't like how well Yuuri seems to understand him.
> 
> 2\. Yuuri is one seriously powerful dude. Otabek is no weakling, and he is undeniably the better fighter, but even he doesn't stand a chance against Yuuri in terms of sheer power. We haven't really seen Yuuri be truly powerful/vicious, so I tried to show that here. Although, Otabek has far better self-control than Yuuri when it comes to resisting taking a bite out of people.
> 
> 3\. Yurio has never called that cat 'Tsarina' before. He only says it in the hopes of pissing Otabek off, testing him.
> 
> 4\. With Otabek and Yurio, there is immediate attraction. Otabek has been following him around, spying on him, for the better part of a year by this point (which, let's be honest, is a bit creepy) and already respects him, and feels like he knows him. Because he finds Yurio so interesting, he's already sort of - not quite in love with him, but, like I said, attracted. From Yurio's viewpoint, the attraction to Otabek is purely physical for the vast majority of this chapter (with the exception, perhaps of the end of section five, and section six) - I'm really bad at writing attraction, but when Otabek first walks through Phichit's door, his reaction is meant to be that of finding Otabek, for lack of a better word, hot. 
> 
> 5\. Yuuri coaching Viktor in swordplay/Viktor coaching Yuuri in flying. I wanted this to symbolise how they've integrated into one another's lives, how they support one another, how they embrace ever aspect of each other.
> 
> 6\. With Yuuri and Viktor disagreeing on the Yurio/Otabek situation, I wanted to show that they are a normal couple, who do disagree at times. Originally, I had planned for Viktor to be the tetchy one - but I thought it made more sense for him to be in favour of it, because he's known Yurio the longest so understand what it is that Yurio might need; he just wants Yurio to be happy and, as someone who loves love, Viktor thinks Otabek might just be that. It doesn't matter that he's a dragon because, hey, Yuuri's a dragon too and Yuuri would never hurt anyone, right? 
> 
> 7\. I had section five open with Otayuri calling each other nicknames to show the progression of time and of their relationship. This section is also about showing off a bit of what Shield does. Viktor doesn't go on patrols because he's too vital to things, and thus Yuuri doesn't either.
> 
> 8\. I was really unsure whether to put that last section in or not. Here is my reasoning for doing it. This is Yurio's Grand Meltdown. It's been coming for a while, probably since before this fic even started, and Otabek is the straw that breaks the camel's back. It isn't Otabek's arrival, per se, but the fact that Yurio likes him and that Otabek likes Yurio back, which is conflicting for him because Yurio has been raised to hate dragons, but also to be extremely suspicious of everyone, to be independent. He can't handle his emotions very well at all, and it frightens him. So he feels the need to test Otabek, to drive him away; he's being defensive. It's triggered by Otabek saving his life in sec 5. I wanted it to show how damaged Yurio is - that his response to someone liking him is to try to make them hurt him, because I think that's what he expects from people. When Otabek gives in and pins him, I wanted this to be like a moment of 'there's someone as strong as me who can help take the weight of things'. Also, I felt that there needed to be some kind of conflict and resolution between the two for their relationship to progress; Otabek is what makes Yurio snap, but he's also what makes things better. His big fear is people leaving him, so his reaction to Otabek is to push him away. I don't know it made sense in my head???
> 
>  
> 
> Seeing as it's kind of been their chapter, here's an Otabek+Yurio playlist:  
> \- No. 1 Party Anthem by Arctic Monkeys  
> \- Reverie by The Hype Theory  
> \- The Run and Go by Twenty One Pilots  
> \- Props & Mayhem by Pierce the Veil
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope this chapter was okay, and a big hug for everyone who's commented - it really motivates me! :) 
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter: Viktor gives (very unasked for) advice, Yuuri fucks up, Yurio thinks he's an adult, Otabek makes poor life choices, Phichit plays estate agent... Oh! And there will be rings.


	11. Love Bites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! 
> 
> First of all, a great big thank you for everyone who's reading and commenting - it really means a lot to me!
> 
> Second of all, I'm sorry that this chapter seems to have taken so long to get done! At risk of oversharing, I'm having a bit of an Episode™ at the moment, so let's blame it on that. Sorry! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

 

 

It had been a week since Yurio had come home at a sigh before midnight, hand parcelled tightly in a bandage, with Otabek Altin’s arm a breath away from being around his shoulders. And things, Viktor thought, had never been so good. That very afternoon in fact, at practice, he had heard Yurio _laugh_. It had been an oasis of a sound, and one that Viktor had committed to memory because _when was the last time I heard him laugh like that?_

He was still fairly sure that the teenager was barely sleeping – the bruise-dark smudges under Yurio’s eyes told him that much – but, Viktor supposed, that was okay. One step at a time. He understood that, and it burnt because he was the hero and he ached so desperately to _save_ Yurio. No, actually, it wasn’t that he wanted to _save_ Yurio; it was that he wanted Yurio to not need saving at all and the pain of knowing that the teenager did, cut deeply into Viktor’s bones. But he did, at the very least, understand. 

He also understood what those shared looks – because, yes, the one-sided, unobserved glancing had indeed evolved into _shared looks_ – between Otabek and Yurio meant. And Viktor _loved_ it. 

Currently, Viktor was sprawled majestically on the couch, filling the emptiness of it with lazy vivacity. His stomach was pleasantly full, in a warm sort of way; Yurio had made _Pirozhki_ for dinner, again, because that was what Yurio did when something had caught him, and they had tasted even better than usual. The warmth of his fullness smudged at the edges of things, stroked downwards on his eyelids in a thick balm. Viktor was not a man to deny himself simple pleasures, and thus he let his eyes settle shut. If he focused, he could hear Yuuri in the kitchen, the light tinkling sound of the washing up, soft words addressed to Makkachin who occasionally answered with a _cruuff_. Viktor’s smile dilated up into his cheeks, and he could feel it pushing up at his eyes. Yes, Viktor thought, this was _perfect._ _This is home_. 

There was a digital dot of a sound, and Viktor cracked one eye open. Yurio was sat on the armchair, coiled up into a small island, making a cave of himself. In the teen’s hand was his cell, the glare of it forming a breathy sheen across his face as his eyes scanned the screen. And then Yurio was smiling in a way that Viktor sorely wished he would more often; small but sincere, gentle, soft. Going nowhere fast. It was new. It was good. 

“Was that from Beka?” Viktor’s smile hiked into a grin.

“None of your damn business, old man.” Yurio’s voice was sharp enough, quick enough, for Viktor to know that his suspicions were correct, as they usually were when it came to Yurio. 

Viktor heaved himself into a sitting position, pouting at Yurio. He adjusted his coat around himself, the ambient chill to the air whispering at his skin just sharply enough to remind him that _the Love of My Life is in the kitchen I could literally get up and kiss him right now isn’t this wonderful._  

But he did not get up and kiss the Love of His Life because, right then, he had wisdom to impart (and teasing to do). 

“Yurio,” Viktor purred the word in cursive. 

“What.” 

“You know I’m here for you, right? If you ever need any kind of advice.” 

“If I needed advice, Vitya, no offence, but why the fuck would I go to _you_?” Yurio peeled his eyes from his phone as though it were some kind of Herculean effort. The smirk on his lips made something in Viktor expand and it felt like reaching into sunlight because _yes this is how he’s supposed to be, how he was always supposed to be_. “You’re a walking car crash.” 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that because, clearly, you _do_ need my advice.” Viktor stretched his arms outwards and then pulled them in again, catlike and drawling. “And, luckily for you, I know everything there is to know about love.” 

“Vitya.” Yurio slipped his phone away, planted his elbows on his thighs and cradled his face in his hands, the rise of heat on his cheeks obscured by his fingers. “Please, for the love of God, stop talking.” 

“You see, Yurochka,” and it had been too long since Viktor had last called him that, “love is a _wonderful_ thing. It’s. It’s like, wherever you are, you always belong there if the person you love is beside you. It’s always being at home.” Viktor paused, something curving along the edge of his jaw. “It feels like flying.” 

“Don’t be gross.” 

“I mean, right, before I met Yuuri, everything felt really grey. Like, really, _really_ grey. Apart from you, of course, you were my little ray of sunshine.” Viktor found himself on the receiving end of an apocalyptic scowl, sharp enough to get cut on. “But now it’s all colourful. And it’s because of Yuuri. I want you to have that too.” A melt of a pause. “You deserve it.” 

Yurio didn’t say anything. He was just staring at Viktor, eyes as wide as lakes, his lips compressed to a concrete line, face in his hands. And, _aw bless him,_ he had gone a dusty sort of pink colour that was very un-Yurio indeed. Briefly, Viktor considered reaching for his phone and snapping a picture. He was sure Beka would appreciate it. But no. Viktor had more important things to think of here; namely, ensuring his young’s (because _young_ fit the situation better, he thought, than brother or son or kid-I-live-with-and-would-die-for) happiness. 

“Have you kissed him yet?” When Yurio just blinked at him, Viktor rolled his eyes. “Otabek. Have you kissed him?” 

“ _No!"_  Yurio scrunched himself up into a meteorite. “Why the fuck would I want to do something like that?” 

Before Viktor could answer, Yurio’s phone pinged again and the teenager was whipping it out. From the look on Yurio’s face as he read the screen, Viktor thought, Yurio’s question had been answered.

Viktor laid back down on the couch, shutting his eyes to the distant rustle of Yuuri rifling through the cutlery drawer in search of untold treasures, and the click-tap of Yurio punching out a message on his phone. A few moments later, some tinny punk-rock music blared out and Yurio was off, phone pressed to his ear as he scuttled for the stairs, a beam bursting free from the tight clasp of his lips. 

A purr of a smile stroked up Viktor’s face because _my little boy is all grown up and it’s time for him to have an adventure of his own._

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t that Yuuri was bad at sharing, because he wasn’t. Having grown up with a sister and then, later, with Phichit glued to his side in virtual perpetuity for vast stretches of time, he was used to it. In fact, if anything, Yuuri _loved_ sharing – the way the shared thing was then jointly enjoyed, a smile spread across two faces instead of one, that feeling of doing something solely to make someone else happy, a connection forged, a bond made. His spoons, for example. One of the greatest pleasures in life, for Yuuri, was when Viktor would sift through his hoard with him, and they would both laugh and smile _together_. So no, Yuuri was not bad at sharing, not even when it came to his most precious things. 

It was, perhaps, who he was sharing _with_. Yes, that must have been it. Because there he was, in his and Viktor’s forest, _their_ place, sunlight creating tie-dye ripples across the expanse of his wings, with _Otabek Altin_. It had been Phichit’s idea for Yuuri to show the younger dragon the best hunting spot within a hundred-mile radius, and, of course, Yuuri had done it – because Phichit had suggested it, and Yuuri would have done _anything_ for Phichit. 

So there they were. Yuuri and Otabek. Otabek and Yuuri. Green yawning around them, veins of water trickling close by, the damp, earthy smell of _life_ flowing through everything around them like some kind of organic electricity, underpinned by tidal washes of pine. Yuuri was in his gear and, although he didn’t need it, had made a point of wearing his _shashka_ in a scabbard – a leaf out of Viktor’s book. A written warning. The weight of it felt comforting, a reminder that he was more than he was. 

To say that Yuuri disliked Otabek Altin wouldn’t have been either entirely accurate nor entirely fair. Yuuri _loathed_ him. Otabek hadn’t killed in well over a year, that much Yuuri believed, but the scent of human blood stuck to him like a stain. He had heard of dragons like Otabek before, who got their kicks from seducing their prey. And no. _No_.  He was not going to let that happen to Yurio, to _his_ young. It was a form of cruelty all the more horrific for its intricacy because _Yurio’s been smiling and laughing and I don’t hear him crying at night so much anymore how is he going to cope when he realises that Otabek’s only playing with his food why can’t anyone else see what’s going on Yurio is fragile why isn’t Viktor putting a stop to it_. 

So no. Yuuri did _not_ like Otabek Altin, and he most certainly did _not_ want to share his and Viktor’s forest with the motorbike-riding, cradle-snatching firebreather. But Phichit had asked him to, and so he was. The one good thing about being around Otabek was that Yuuri’s anxiety all but evaporated – thus was the strength of his hatred (or, as Yuuri preferred to think of it, his protectiveness). Another benefit of them being out there together, Yuuri supposed, was that it meant Otabek was well away from Yurio, if only for the moment. 

He looked over his shoulder, and something in his chest curled in on itself like thick, black smoke. Because there Otabek was, gazing up into the crosshatch of the trees, combat boots pressing down on a small sea of forget-me-nots, drowning them into waterlogged corpses. The grass gained a fringe of frost; it crackled. 

“We’re here to hunt,” Yuuri gritted out, and it sounded like a command. _He needs to know how dangerous I am._ “You can track animals, right?” 

“There’s a fox about,” Otabek shut his eyes and made a production of inhaling, the breath rolling through his body, “ninety yards in,” he raised a finger, darting it to be pointing to a space beyond Yuuri’s right shoulder, “that direction.” 

Before Yuuri’s eyebrow was even halfway to being arched, Otabek had jetted off. Yuuri scarcely had time to be alone because, a cluster of heartbeats later, Otabek was back, a dead fox hung around his neck like a scarf. It’s eyes, as green as hope, were still open, wide, gunshots, not yet glassy. The pearly white roar of the fox’s neck was not, in fact, white. It was a red so deep, so seeping as to be almost black – the same colour was smeared around Otabek’s lips, a smudge of it flicked right up to his cheek bone. 

Yuuri felt something scrape against his lungs in barbed plumes. Not because Otabek was, perhaps, a better, quicker hunter than he was, but because of the way Otabek was _wearing_ his kill. A victory garland. Teasing it even in death. Baring its blood like war paint. The animal had been something majestic, but now it hung, mangled, weak, around Otabek’s neck like a bad joke. 

“What’s wrong?” Otabek tilted his head to the side, his black eyes suckering all of the light out of everything. Yuuri watched as he tugged the fox from around his neck, his face shrinking down into something blank-hard, and held the creature out. A small pool of blood dribbled to the grass, biting into the frost. “You can go first.” 

Yuuri saw the display for what it was, and he hiked his lips up into a razorblade snarl, a gravelly _hissss_ broiling in the back of his throat; “you’re not a part of my pack.” 

For a moment, Otabek just stared at him, his eyes two full-stops, and Yuuri held it. The only thing he could think about was Yurio, about how the slayer would blush at the mention of Otabek’s name, about how he had taken to smiling and laughing, about how so-very-breakable he was. The idea of this _monster_ being anywhere near Yurio made Yuuri’s skin crawl because _he’s so dangerous and Yurio’s so vulnerable and I need to protect him I need to keep him safe he’s my young._  

And then Otabek shrugged. He crunched his mouth around the side of the fox’s face, his teeth going through skin and bone and muscle like a knife through melted butter. Where a green eye had been was now a vacuous hole, a _nothing._ Sparks of ice spat from Yuuri’s fingertips in tiny, pinprick fists. 

He could, it occurred to Yuuri, kill Otabek. Right there. Right then. _As soon as we were alone he turned on me._ Nobody would think to question him. It frightened Yuuri, loosened the joints of his bones, just how easily the thought had come to him. Because he wasn’t a killer. And he wasn’t about to let some jumped-up punk change that. He shook his head and the idea splintered – a shard of it staying stuck in the backroom of his head because, well, Yuuri would have done _anything_ to keep Yurio safe. He was precious. 

In his pocket, Yuuri wrapped his fingers around Viktor’s latest gift; a mother of pearl caviar spoon. It felt soft in the way that smooth things sometimes do, like a kiss. 

A breeze ruffled its fingers through Yuuri’s hair, and with it came the staccato scent of a deer. He glanced at Otabek – the teenager had dropped to his knees on the ground, nose-deep in the belly of his fox, and Yuuri wished he had a cell phone because _Yurio should see him like this –_ and then nodded to himself. Otabek could be left for half a moment. Hell, maybe he’d even wander off and get lost. Problem solved. 

Without so much as a whisper of warning, Yuuri shot off, letting the hook of the scent reel him in. And there the deer was, a doe, the blocky round of her snout ducking into the water of one of the myriad streams that made the respiratory system of the forest. She was a beautiful creature, Yuuri thought. Her pelt was a dusky sort of brown, a memory of a colour, and even at ease she seemed poised, the ground pressing up to meet her willowy legs. She was the forest. 

It was a death so quick as to be painless, her neck snapping easily in Yuuri’s hands. He fed where she fell, making short work of the carcass' torso, letting himself get lost in the heady tendrils of her blood as it caressed down his neck and jaw and chin. A thick, thready vein got tangled in his second set of teeth and the wet _snap_ of it as he tugged it free was satisfying. Briefly, it occurred to Yuuri that he did not feel ashamed. 

After a feed, everything always felt sharper, but in a blurred sort of way, which made no sense, Yuuri knew, but that was how it was. It was like the _aboutness_ fell away into long-ago stars, but the _about_ was as clear as a midnight scream. It was like not knowing he was on fire but still feeling the scraping, raw dig of a burn. 

He shut his eyes and, for a moment, the half-eaten deer evaporated into the ether. In its place was Viktor, all the paler for the splatters of claret forming firework constellations on his skin, and the only movement, the only sound was the steady drip of blood as it fell to the grass, gentle as dew. _It would be so easy you know you could do it you know he wouldn’t fight you and even if he did it wouldn’t matter._  

Yuuri shook his head hard enough for something to click, forced his teeth down into his gums, scrunched his wings away so quickly, so tightly that he knew he would probably have to get something from Phichit for the strain. The weight of what remained of the doe felt suffocating, and he knew it was a waste but he just _couldn’t_ because it had thick eyelashes (like Viktor did) and it was warm (like Viktor was) and it hadn’t even stood a chance (like Viktor wouldn’t). 

He scarcely made it to the stream in time to be sick into it. The water ran red. It was his own personal Acheron. 

“Are you okay?” 

Yuuri spun around, and there Otabek was, his skin smothered in sticky puckers of red. His voice hadn’t been soft, because nothing about Otabek Altin could ever be considered _soft_ , but it had been marble rather than granite. 

“Stay _away_ from Yurio,” Yuuri growled, his shoulders arching back into battlements. He didn’t sound like himself, and he thought he might be sick again, and he just wanted to go home, to have Viktor’s arms around him and Makkachin’s nose pressed against his leg and Yurio sat in his armchair, scowling like a grumpy old man, _safe_. He wanted, he ached for, the secure, soft insularity of his pack. 

“Pardon?” Otabek blinked and, for just a slither of a moment, he looked young. 

“Stay away from him. I mean it. You know what I can do.” The water of the stream coagulated, clotting blood, and was frozen. Yuuri shut his eyes, tuning in, and listened to the twinkling glisten of ice bleeding through the forest, clogging its veins into pulmonary failure. Everything in Yuuri felt too sharp. Too _quick fast now._ “Leave. Get out of St Petersburg. Get out of _Russia_. Get away from him!” 

The shout rang out into the forest, ricocheting like a bullet and ripping holes into everything. Yuuri’s chest was heaving, pouncing, trying to separate itself from him because everything was _burning_. By virtue of the sudden loudness, a snowfall of silence itched through the forest. 

“Well,” Otabek mused after a too-long pause. The teenager slouched, almost like he was leaning against the end of an invisible bar. Otabek’s hand dug into his pocket for his carton of cigarettes. “I’m not going to do that.” 

“How many Yurios have there been?” Yuuri kept his voice low and quiet; a promise. “How many human boys have you played this game with?” 

“Human boys? Oh. There’s been _plenty_. Human girls, too.” Otabek lit up with his forefinger, taking his time, dragging it out. But Yuuri, with his enhanced hearing, could pick up the cymbal clatter of Otabek’s heartbeat. It took a few attempts, Yuuri noticed, for Otabek’s cigarette to catch. “But none of them were Yuri. I care about him, and he needs that. I want to give him what he needs. If you’ll let me.” 

“He doesn’t need _you._ You’re a murderer.” 

“No." Otabek shook his head and it was throw of a thing. "I _was_ a hunter. Don’t tell me you’ve never taken a human life.” 

“I _haven’t_ ,” Yuuri hissed, his body curling into serpentine sharpness. 

“Well then,” Otabek rolled his eyes, “that explains a lot. I can go without, _easy_. But you? You don’t know what you’re missing. And it’s going to drive you mad. You’re a time bomb.” 

“We’re not talking about me.” Yuuri clicked his fingers – Viktor’s penchant for theatrics must have been rubbing off on him – and Otabek’s cigarette greyed. “When you smoke those around Yurio, you’re hurting him. Cigarette smoke makes humans sick. They are fragile.” 

There was a pause, and then everything about Otabek sort of slumped. His eyes – a brown pale enough to almost qualify as a grey – shrunk down into his face. At his side, his arms turned outwards and, to Yuuri, it looked like a breath away from defeat. Otabek took a step forward, his wings pressed backwards in a bowing curve; Yuuri matched his stride, but his posture was the binary opposite. 

“I have nothing but respect for you, Yuuri Katsuki.” Otabek bowed his head into a sweeping decline. “But if staying in St Petersburg means we have to fight it out, then so be it. I know you’ll win. But I’d rather die fighting for Yuri Plisetsky than abandon him.” 

Yuuri searched Otabek with his eyes, and he didn’t know what he was looking for exactly, but something in his gut thawed so he thought he must have found it. He didn’t trust the firebreather, not by a long shot, but he was fairly certain that Otabek wasn’t lying. Because, just for a moment, there had been something distinctly _Viktor_ about him. He didn’t believe that Otabek Altin was in _love_ with Yurio – lusted after him, maybe – but, in that moment, he couldn’t quite bring himself to _loathe_ the teenager. 

So Yuuri nodded, just the once, and it wasn’t quite an agreement. He touched his hand to the hilt of his _shashka_ ; it felt like touching some part of Viktor. 

“Okay.” He nodded again, a ripple of a movement. The forest breathed again. “But if you hurt him, in _any_ way, if he comes home upset because of something you’ve said, if I see a bruise on him, if I see you black-eye on him for even a _moment_ , I _will_ kill you. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Crystal.” 

The next day, Otabek would show up to practice with empty pockets. In the afternoon, when it came to sparring and Otabek took off his jacket, Yuuri, watching from a distance, would ask _what are those_ , and Mila would reply _nicotine patches._

* * *

 

The cabin was a mess. If she had still been alive today, Phichit thought, his mother would have described it as a _right royal state._ As he thought it her voice came to him in tendrils, and he sighed out a smile. His mother had been a sunbeam of a woman; all teddy bear hugs and fairy-light kisses. 

Everything was dulled into a yawn by the thick film of dust. Sunlight spilt through the window, peeking between the stubby fingers of grime sprawled against the dirt, and a universe of dust motes twinkled in it. The musty smell was the sort that drags itself up into your nostrils and refuses to leave, remaining there as an echo for days afterwards. Cobwebs pressed into every corner, hands of spirits never to escape their wooden tomb. It was all wood that had long stopped breathing – apart from the fireplace at the far, narrow end of the room, which was carved of jagged stone.  The room was naked, stripped bare of all personality. It wasn’t a cold day – Phichit wasn’t even wearing a jacket – but a shiver jittered over his spine. 

No, it wasn’t a glamorous place, but it would have to do. The stars had led Phichit there, to the far side of what was universally thought of as Viktor and Yuuri’s Forest, and this was what he had found. 

He wasn’t sure when the cabin had last been lived in or who had lived in it, but Phichit sensed it had been a long time since anything other than shadows and dust had glided through the door (a thick, heavy, slab of a thing that had been cut roughly, punched out of wood, its iron hinges as big as fists). 

Walking the length of the room, he made a note of things he would need to bring the next time he came; cleaning supplies were a given, new curtains, paint, rugs, blankets. Furniture could come after. 

This, Phichit mused, would of course be the living room and dining area. Any cooking would have to be done over the fire, and a television was an impossibility – or maybe Yakov could be persuaded to stretch their funds to allow for a fancy electricity generator. _I need money for a generator, Yakov, the stars have_   _proclaimed that the Chosen One must be able to keep up with his favourite soaps_ _._ Or maybe that would have been pushing his luck. There was no bathroom but that was okay; a strand of water – more than a stream but not quite a river – stretched its arm around the shoulder of the cabin. 

There were two other small, stuffy stubs of rooms off of the main one. The first, the one with its door closest to the fireplace, just big enough for two single beds, would be Yurio and Otabek’s, Phichit thought, and a distinctly _pink_ feeling breezed through him; they were such a fundamentally _good_ pairing. Even Yakov thought so – albeit if only in terms of combat. Phichit had seen a photograph on Instagram just yesterday, posted on Viktor’s account, of the two teenagers sat in a coffee shop, one mug almost big enough to be classed as a cauldron between them, completely unaware of the outside world. By the looks of it, Yurio had been talking in spitfires, his face a blade of a thing, and Otabek had just been listening, chin cupped in his hand, the very picture of tranquil serenity wrapped in a biker jacket. The picture had been taken from outside the cafe window and, if Phichit squinted, he could see Yuuri’s glaring shield of a face reflected in the pristine glass. Viktor’s caption had been _is my son one half of Instagram’s next hot couple???_ to which Yurio (whose own Instagram had turned into nothing but motorbikes – or, rather, _a_ motorbike – and cats – or, rather, _a_ cat – and firebreathers – or, rather, _a_ firebreather) had commented _I am not your son shithead._ Otabek and Yurio, Phichit mused, were building a world between them. _Nothing fights fire like fire, even if they aren’t quite burning together yet._  

The second of the side rooms would be Viktor and Yuuri’s. A double bed would be impractical – the room would be nothing but mattress – but it would have been unthinkable for Phichit to ask them not to sleep in one another’s arms. If Phichit achieved nothing else with all of this, he thought, he had at least given Yuuri and Viktor to each other, and that, maybe, was enough. Looking at the two of them together was to feel love by osmosis. 

Phichit stopped where he was and shut his eyes; he knew he was meant for great things, but what could be greater than making his best friend so profoundly, so deeply, so heart-squeezingly happy? 

He could remember a time when Yuuri’s smiles had been suggestions, had been _I’m not sure am I doing this right please don’t hate me I just want to join in please like me._ He could remember a time when Yuuri had always spoken in whispers, like he was frightened of actually being heard; it had taken Phichit _weeks_ to ease the dragon out from words into sentences – the first time Yuuri had actively disagreed with him had felt like an achievement. He could remember a time, a story ago, when Yuuri had _hated_ himself. And it had broken Phichit’s heart in ways that would never quite heal, holding his best friend as he had cried because _nobody wants me I’m nothing I’m worthless. I want you_ , Phichit had said, _you’re worth the world to me_ and it hadn't quite been enough.

Yuuri had been in the dark for too long, and Phichit had tried his best to shine his own sunlight on him. But then Viktor had happened, and Yuuri had gone from being a moon to being a star in his own right. 

Phichit just hoped that, after all of this was over, Yuuri’s light would still be burning. 

Because Phichit knew what was going to happen. And he knew that, in all probability, Yuuri was never going to forgive him. It was all for the greater good, Phichit told himself, but the thought tasted like Antifreeze. _Yuuri is going to hate me and what matters compared to that?_  

But no. Phichit shook his head. He couldn’t think like that. 

_The thing about being a prophet, my sweet sunshine boy,_ the memory of his mother’s voice came to him as an embrace, _is that we must remember that we are of the present; promise me that you won’t get lost in a future you can’t change_ _because it comes around quicker than you could ever imagine._

  

* * *

 

Yuuri wasn’t looking at him, and Viktor physically _felt_ the loss. He always wanted Yuuri to be looking at him, for them to always be touching in some way. And they were – Yuuri’s fingers were knotted tightly with Viktor’s, a lock, a clasp, a promise – but it wasn’t the _same_ thing if Yuuri wasn’t throwing him little glances whilst they walked like he was constantly checking that Viktor was still there, that Viktor was still with him. Maybe it was wrong of Viktor to actively _enjoy_ a part of Yuuri’s anxiety, but he couldn’t help it. 

They were walking quickly, brisk as the icy bite of the air that constantly surrounded Yuuri like an aura. As they stepped through the harbour mouth of their alley, they passed a young woman who gave a little jump of a shiver. Viktor almost felt jealous. He gave Yuuri’s hand a squeeze and, in return, a ripple of frost kissed the back of his neck. _Yuuri’s my dragon and I am his human._

The main street to which their alley was a dried-up tributary wasn’t _too_ busy – a bluster of tourists were bumbling along, jostled by meteoric locals as they fired past; a group of kids slouched by a bin, _we’re up to no good_ scrawled across their faces in worn-down crayon; a violinist busking on the corner, preaching miracles to deaf ears, filled the air with calligraphy. By St Petersburg standards, the place was at a gentle snooze. 

However, Viktor knew, by Yuuri’s standards it was a veritable catacomb. Too many options. Too many smells and sights and sounds. Too many possibilities. _Too many._

Viktor watched as Yuuri’s spare hand, the one not currently gripping Viktor’s hard enough to make it creak, buried itself in Yuuri’s jacket pocket – the blue and black one that Viktor had bought for him, back before everything was _everything_ – and wrapped around something. Not having x-ray vision, Viktor could not, of course, see what Yuuri was hugging to his palm; but he didn’t have to see to know that it was a spoon, most likely a mother of pearl caviar spoon. 

So Viktor dropped Yuuri’s hand, and the dragon stopped as still as the breath before a gunshot. But then Viktor curved his arm around Yuuri’s waist, pulling him into a cave of a sideways embrace, and his dragon melted against him. As Yuuri nestled in, the rest of the world flowing in a blur around them, his hair feathered against the open book of Viktor’s cheek, and Viktor’s skin _danced_. Because there he was, the rest of the grey world smudged to a soup around him, in his own personal supernova of technicolour. They were their own world. 

“If there’s too many people about, _Drakonchik_ ,” Viktor kept his voice low, soft; a nudge of a sound, “we can go back home. I don’t mind.” 

But Yuuri shook his head, and something in Viktor ached in a vacuous way because _he doesn’t need to be strong in front of me._ Viktor loved Yuuri, right down to the bones of him. He knew he did, in the same way that everyone knows that the Earth is turning as they cling to it, but, as with this metaphor, sometimes Viktor _actively_ remembered it and it rushed over him in scurrying whispers.

Viktor stepped away, just enough to cup Yuuri’s chin against his palm, a pearl of ice against a pillow of pastel heat. Yuuri’s eyes looked like they did when he was flying; a concrete kind of brown, dark, solid. _Determined._  

“Okay.” Viktor pressed a kiss to Yuuri’s forehead and rehooked his arm around his dragon’s waist. They started to walk on, Viktor trying to form his body to create some kind of protective bubble. “Where are we going?” 

Yuuri answered with a grin and, although Viktor could still feel the harsh rigidity of Yuuri’s body, there was mischief dancing there like sunlight on waves. It was delicious. 

Viktor let Yuuri guide them along, and as they drifted through the subtly ornate street Viktor let his mind wander. Yuuri had been tense over the past few weeks in a way that hurt Viktor in gentle ebbs; kisses had become more fleeting, hugs less tight, and over the past few nights Yuuri had taken to constructing a barrier between them in bed out of Makkachin (who saw this as a wonderful opportunity to hug both of her masters at once). To some, it might have appeared that the fire was going out, but not to Viktor because when they _did_ kiss and hug and hold, that same nebulous electricity crackled there, singed, flowed, tangled them together. Every fresh day was a tally on their cumulative love; every new day was another day that they knew each other, and the longer they knew each other the more they loved one another because the more they knew one another, the more they had to love. To put it into a metaphor, each day added an extra brain cell to the consciousness of their love. At least, that was how Viktor felt (and he was fairly sure that Yuuri felt the same). But back to the point, something was _up_ with Yuuri, and Viktor didn’t just automatically _know_ what it was. And that _hurt._  

Right now though, as they trailed through St Petersburg, everything was _good_. They were close. They were happy. They were together. Viktor could have called it normal and it wouldn’t have been grey. 

“I love you,” Viktor murmured, just because he could. 

“I love you too.” Yuuri’s voice was a dream, and Viktor squeezed his arm around Yuuri’s waist because, suddenly, it didn’t feel like they were close enough. A starburst of red plumed Yuuri’s cheek and Viktor felt himself fall that little bit harder. “You’re my favourite human.”

“And you’re my favourite dragon.” 

It didn’t take long for Viktor to figure out where they were going, but he still let Yuuri pull him along, and when the rain-stained concrete punched into view against the fluffy smog of the sky, he let out a surprised gasp. They were at the thrift shop, the one which had become Viktor’s number one spoon stockist (the owner, having realised that Viktor was easy money when it came to showering his beloved with gifts, had made it his business to collect antiquarian or just generally interesting spoons, and then sell them to the eccentric silver-haired man in overpriced bouquets). 

Viktor held the door open for Yuuri because a hero should always be a gentleman. The bell, as always, didn’t ring. The owner, as always, looked up anyway from behind his counter. 

“Ah, Viktor. _U menya net nikakikh lozhek dlya vas pryamo seychas_.” _I have no spoons for you right now_. The man nodded at Yuuri. “Hello.”  

Yuuri nodded back, shrinking slightly into Viktor’s side. It struck Viktor just how confident Yuuri _could_ be, and it made him love the dragon all the more. He didn’t fully understand Yuuri’s anxiety, not in the way that he could understand Yurio’s nightmares or even Yuuri’s wariness of Otabek, but he did understand that Yuuri had worked hard to be in the position he was when around the people he loved, and Viktor _adored_ him, was so intrinsically _proud_ of him for it.  

He watched – because, sometimes, all Yuuri needed was someone to watch over him – as his dragon flexed his nostrils, breathed in deeply, and hounded through the belly of the shop. Viktor trailed behind, intrigue pooling in his chest.  

“Are you looking for something,” he asked, softly, itching to help.   

All Yuuri would give was a nod, and a grin itched up Viktor’s cheeks because this felt like an adventure in miniature. They shuttled through the green section, through the yellow and pink and black sections, Yuuri leading with his nose, and Viktor almost walked straight into Yuuri for the sudden cut of his stop.

There they were, in an alcove drenched in every shade of blue Viktor had ever seen or imagined there to be; a chiffon dress the in a shade of washed-out blue, like the sky after a storm, flowed from a faceless mannequin; a regiment of stilettos ranging from cerulean to cyan; a starshine sapphire dinner jacket headlined a bursting rack of clothes. But none of these things seemed to have been what had Yuuri’s – or, rather, Yuuri’s nose’s – attention. No. Yuuri was scouring through a small wicker bowl on an end table. He plucked something out and cupped it in his hands, burying his nose in the soft well of his palms. Viktor watched, patient. _Yuuri doesn’t like being rushed._  

Keeping the mystery item encapsulated in one fist, Yuuri stalked onwards, and Viktor had to almost-jog just to keep up. This time, they stopped in the grey section. Viktor didn’t even had enough time to count the different shades – because this place could even turn  _grey_ into some kind of kaleidoscope – because Yuuri dipped his hand into a ceramic bowl, pulled it out, and nodded immediately to himself. 

“I think I’m ready to pay now,” Yuuri said, and he was smiling, and Viktor was reminded, as he was every time he looked at Yuuri Katsuki, of how _lucky_ he was. “Can you wait outside? I want it to be a surprise. Please.” 

Viktor pouted, playful, but purred out, “of course. I’ll be right outside the door.” 

So there Viktor was, pacing around outside the thrift shop, and fighting the burning urge to rush back in because it felt like being teased – Yuuri was right there, barely even a heartbeat away, but Viktor couldn’t see him.

_Wow_ , Viktor thought, _I’ve got it bad_. Which, in turn, was good. Very good indeed. 

Yuuri came out without a carrier bag, a smile on his face and frost on his cheeks. His eyes were an amethystine smoke that sort of made Viktor believe in God because things that beautiful didn’t just _happen._  

“What did you buy?” Viktor’s voice came in bounds as he took Yuuri’s hand, folding their palms together. The chill of his dragon’s skin felt like the sparks of a spell. “You got two things, right? And they must have been small.” 

“You’ll have to wait and see.” Yuuri bit his lip, but his face couldn’t contain his glow and this, Viktor was fairly sure, was the most beautiful sight he would ever be blessed with. “I’ll show you when we get home.” 

“Can we _travel?”_ Before Yuuri could shake his head because _it’s against the rules_ , Viktor petalled kisses all over his boyfriend’s face, chased Yuuri's jaw and cheeks bones with his lips; keying in a code. “Come on. _Please_. I won’t tell if you don’t.” 

Yuuri, for a moment, just stood there and blinked. His face was overwhelmingly red, right up to his forehead, right out to his ears. Viktor pressed one final kiss, right to the iceberg tip of Yuuri’s nose, and he knew it was the critical hit. 

An elderly woman, poking out of her house opposite the thrift shop, watched as the strange man – she had seen him before, leaving that bizarre hovel with bunches of grotty old spoons – hoisted himself up onto the back of a shorter, black-haired man. For a moment, she thought they were perhaps fighting because a person of the black-haired man’s height should have had no business in being able to carry the weight of someone as tall as the silver-haired lunatic. The shorter man looped his arms around the taller’s legs, carrying him like a backpack, and the taller matted his hands in black hair. A windchime of laughter tickled its way to her through the breeze; _oh to be young._ She blinked, and they were gone without a trace. She blinked again. Rubbed at her eyes. Scrunched up the lids and evened them out again. But no matter how many times she blurred, smudged or blacked-out the world, they were still gone when it came back into focus, and she found it necessary to remind herself that she was, after all, _very_ old. So she shook her head, and got on with her day. As people do. 

Viktor and Yuuri were home within a heartbeat. Viktor slipped off of Yuuri’s back. His hair was a windswept mess, a whirlwind, tufts sticking out like raw electricity; Yuuri’s, on the other hand, had slicked back into a streamlined stroke of sleek black that looked _ridiculously_ good. Viktor paused for a moment to dwell on the injustice of it (and, also, to arrange his hair into something less apocalyptic). 

He reached into his coat pocket for his housekeys, but was stopped by the icicles of Yuuri’s fingers wrapping loosely around his wrist.  

“This is where we met,” Yuuri mumbled. Viktor nodded, slowly, his eyes reaching out for Yuuri’s. _I’m listening to you Drakonchik._ “So, maybe, I should do this here.” 

“Do what?” Viktor tilted his head to the side.

“I, um. I bought you. I bought us.” Yuuri dug his hand around in his pocket, and pulled out two small rings. The first was a band of milky-blue glass, swanlike in its thinness, and he held it out to Viktor. “I know you can’t smell it,” Yuuri began, his eyes stuck to Viktor’s as tightly as Viktor’s were stuck to the horizon curve of the ring, “but it’s got the scent of the sea. As soon as I caught it, it made me think of this little town in Japan called Hasetsu. Back when dragons were allowed to have roots, that’s where my pack came from. We used to stay there, every other summer.” The smile on Yuuri’s face made Viktor’s heart hurt. “So. I thought.” Viktor splayed his hand in front of Yuuri, a prompt, and Yuuri, fingers quaking, slid the slice of sea onto Viktor’s ring finger. It felt cold. “Both of my homes, together. No matter what, if you wear that ring, there will always be a part of me, with you. And, I,” he rummaged around, and pulled out another ring; this one was a thin band of tarnished metal. “I got this one, for me. It. It’s a silly idea.” 

“Hey, no.” Viktor had to pause to clear his throat. “No. It isn’t.” Gently, Viktor took the second ring from Yuuri. “What does this one smell of?” 

Blushing, Yuuri mumbled, “our shampoo.” 

“Okay.” Viktor ran his thumb lightly around the edge of the ring – there were tiny, imperceptible dents and nicks, moon craters only visible via touch – buying for time as he cast a net out, searching for words. “When you wear this ring, Yuuri,” as he spoke, he slipped it onto Yuuri’s ring finger, eyes magnetised to the contrast of it, the _he is mine_ of it, “and I wear mine, we’re connected. Nothing will tear us apart. Because we’re mates. Soulmates. And now,” Viktor held up his own hand, waggling his fingers so that the sunlight danced off of his ring, “we’re engaged!” 

“W-we. We are?” Yuuri blinked, looking up at Viktor like he was seeing the stars for the first time; something new and exciting and, perhaps, dangerous. 

“Yep! We’ll get married right after we save the world. Together.”

  

* * *

 

The ground didn’t make any sense to Yurio. It kept warping and jolting, either stamping up too fast to meet his foot or slipping away under it into a gorge. Everything was sort of numb, and Yurio sort of liked that, which, in turn, sort of worried him. But the worry was in the back of his mind, buried under a thick, smoggy layer of warmth. 

It had been an easy patrol – just striding through the back allies of St Petersburg, Otabek at his side, in a silence so comfortable as to be soft, smattered with barbs playful enough to sparkle. Ten o’clock had rolled around too quickly because Yurio only really felt _alive_ when he was around Otabek, and it was as frightening as it was wonderful and he didn’t want it to end. So Otabek had been walking him home when Yurio, in a gust of _something_ , had purred _take me out._ And, okay, so he had known it was flirting, and seeing Otabek _blush_ had made him feel dangerously powerful, but – well. There was no _but_ to it. With Otabek, Yurio could be _selfish_. He could feel _safe_. Because Otabek knew everything and he was strong and he had burnt through every last line of defence, every little test Yurio had thrown at him. _He's saved my life and seen me bleed and watched me fall apart._  

They had wound up at a bar, Otabek saying _you drink, right?_ and Yurio who, at a blur past seventeen, had never touched a drop in his life, had said _pfft of course I do I’m not a kid_. 

And now, here they were, wending through the whirlpool of streets between the bar and _home_ because this girl had been _looking_ at Otabek and how _dare_ she and so maybe Yurio had pulled out his _misericorde_ and then Otabek was snorting and laughing and it was the _prettiest_ sound Yurio had ever heard, like a music box, and then they had been running or maybe Otabek had been running and Yurio had just so happened to be holding his hand. 

He looked up at the spray of stars. One winked at him, and Yurio lifted his hand to wave at it, only to find that it was still very much attached to Otabek’s. He stopped walking – he couldn’t remember when they had stopped running – so he could focus the entirety of his bubbling attention on the fact that he was _holding Otabek’s hand_. The moon was really big and the stars were really bright and everything in Yurio was spinning like a Catherine wheel. He thought he was going to be sick, but then he wasn’t. He considered it a good sign. 

There was a soft pull as Otabek tried to walk on; the movement ebbed into a smudge as the dragon realised he was not being followed. A smirk that was too warm, too melted to be a _smirk_ tugged up at his lips, because there Yuri was, bathed in moonlight, his eyes lunar-large, everything about him frozen around their joined hands. 

Yurio just couldn’t look away. Otabek’s hand was warm because _of course it is he’s a fucking dragon but he’s good and warm and he could protect me._ Not, of course, that Yurio needed protecting. Not from anything. Not from anyone. He was the _protector_. But still, it was nice to know. Yurio wasn’t sure which part of Otabek he liked the most, but in that moment he thought it might have been his hands because they were sun-warmed sandcastles. 

But then Yurio looked up and changed his mind because _wow Otabek has a face._ He let out a spurt of dizzy laughter that sounded a little bit like it wasn’t himself.  _How didn't I notice before that Otabek's got a face?_

“Jesus, Yura,” Otabek shook his head and it made Yurio dizzy. “How did you get so drunk?” 

“Well… there was the three doubles y’got me.” He patted Otabek’s hand. “An’ then, when you were in the bathroom, I got more ‘cause I already had a drink so I think they thought I was older." 

“Sneaky.” Otabek sounded impressed, and it felt like gold dust in Yurio’s veins. 

“Clever,” Yurio corrected. 

“That too.” Otabek shook his head again, softer this time, and something about his face was all smudgy. Yurio dropped the dragon’s hands in favour of pressing his fingers to Otabek’s cheeks, half expecting it to melt off onto his fingers. But no. It was _real_. A fairytale sound of surprise slipped from Otabek’s lips, and Yurio sorely regretted the fact that he probably wouldn’t remember it come morning. _But maybe I can make him laugh like that again and again and again and holy shit._ “Yura?” 

“Hm?” 

“Are you going to let go of my face?” 

“No. It is my face now.” Otabek laughed again, and Yurio beamed and it sort of hurt his cheeks because it was so wide and whole and unbridled. “This is great. Really. Really great.” He wasn’t entirely sure what he was talking about, but it felt _right._ “Just. _Great_.” 

“Yeah, well. See if you still think it's so _great_ in the morning.” Otabek narrowed his eyes at him. Yurio puffed his chest out, under the impression that he was being scrutinised. “You’ve never been drunk before in your life, have you?” Yurio shook his head proudly. _I tricked you I tricked you I tricked you._ The older boy made a sound like the hiss-crack of a beer can cutting open. “Yuuri’s going to _kill_ me. Literally. Enjoy this walk home, Yura, because it’s the last you’re going to be seeing of me.” Yurio laughed and then he scowled because his laugh sounded like pink lemonade and it was fucking _gross_. “Why did you want to get drunk?” 

“Because,” Yurio started earnestly, eyes as wide as broken-spined books, “drunk people pass out. And when you’re passed-out you don’t dream.” He threw a shrug. “I’m tired.” 

_Oh no I think I said the wrong thing but at least I was honest but why was I honest because I can trust him maybe but no I can’t but yes I can Jesus fucking H Christ he has such a face._  

But Otabek’s face, for all of its undeniable face-ness, had gone hard. Like a diamond. He wasn’t smiling in any kind of way even though his lips were. His eyes had gone a translucent smoky colour and, for lack of a better word, they were _sad_. Yurio’s hands slipped from the older boy’s cheeks and he stepped closer, trying to brighten into a smile in the hopes of pulling Otabek into reciprocation. 

It didn’t work, so Yurio stepped closer again, because when Yuuri was upset and Viktor couldn’t do anything about it, Viktor always just _stayed close to him_. 

“You make me feel things,” Yurio blurted out, because it had seemed like the right thing to do. And it _was_ because Beka was _blushing_ and it was _the best fucking thing._ “Yep.” Yurio nodded solemnly. “You, Otabek Altin,” he punctuated with a stiff poke to the addressed’s chest, “make me feel things.” 

“Well, I.” Otabek blinked, his eyelashes reminding Yurio of sparks. Of dancing. Of fighting. “You make me feel things too, Yura.” 

A pause, like the moment before bursting through the ceiling of a pool and taking a breath. 

“Are you going to kiss me?” 

“Oh, yes. Absolutely.” Otabek’s thumb stroked a trail of stardust along Yurio’s jaw and he couldn’t remember what breathing felt like. He shut his eyes, pouted his lips, and waited to be blessed. _For what I’m about to receive may the Lord make me truly grateful_. “But not,” Otabek dropped his hand from Yurio’s face, and Yurio was fairly sure (but not totally certain) that the scrappy, mewled sound of _want_ was from his own mouth, “right now. You’re too drunk, Yura.” 

“I don’t fucking care.” Recklessness kicked up in his chest, a tantruming toddler. He stamped his foot in protest. 

“But _I_ do. You won’t even remember any of this tomorrow. And I want our first kiss to be something you’ll _never_ forget.” Otabek’s voice was slow and steady, matching the sluggish pumping of Yurio’s heart. The sound wound softly around Yurio’s head like cotton wool and, suddenly, he found that he never wanted Otabek to stop talking. “Now, come on. I’ve got to get you home.” 

They stopped a grand total of seven times on the way home, for that was the number of cats Yurio spotted and subsequently had to fuss over. Otabek didn’t try to stop him. 

 

* * *

 

Everything was alive. Otabek’s feet weren’t itching, and his hands weren’t reaching – well, no, actually, his hands _were_ reaching but in a good way. It wasn’t a _not enough_ kind of reach but an _I’m living not surviving_ kind of reach. And the thing he was reaching for was so very, very close. Right underneath him, in fact. 

He had Yuri pinned to the concrete floor of the training room, straddling the teenager (seventeen and one twenty-sixth) at the hips, but with one hand carefully cradling the back of Yuri’s head, his fingers forming a map through blond hair, because Yuri looked like he was suffering enough already without a nice smack to the cranium. And for a moment, a perfect moment, they were both totally still. Otabek watched as green eyes trailed up his arm, along his shoulder, up his neck, and landed on his face, the process slow, something indulgent about it. The volume of their silence drowned out the background clatter of _shashkas_ , the rusty-car grumble of Yakov’s voice, the rainfall of feet as Mila tumbled, the endless torrent of sighs slipping from Georgi, and one thought filtered through into Otabek’s head; _are you going to kiss me?_  

Of all the things that had been said the night before, of all the notes that Otabek had made ( _I need to get him to sleep, I need to talk to him about feelings, I need to look after him_ ), this was the thing currently occupying his mind and turning it into a void. Briefly, he considered the possibility of just tucking back a strand of Yuri’s hair and touching his lips to his human’s, right there and then, just a taste, just a touch, just a little bit. But then a pinwheel of frost prickled down his spine and Otabek thought better of it. 

Instead he smirked out, “you look like shit.” It was a fair assessment of things; Yuri’s face was all shadows and angles and claggy dustiness. 

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I died and came back to life last night. I thought the Jabberwocky was going to have a fucking aneurysm.” Yuri shook his head. He moved to sit up, and thus Otabek sort of slithered backwards – not off of Yuri, but onto his legs. _For someone so sharp and skinny he makes a surprisingly comfortable chair._ With the movement, Yuri’s face crumpled and he touched a hand to his forehead. “ _Fuck_.” 

Otabek let himself laugh in a small, smoky way. He reached out to tuck back a strand of Yuri’s hair, and the slayer let him. As his knuckles grazed the human’s cheek, a blush warmed there. Nobody was paying them any attention, not even Yuuri, and Otabek had never felt so much like he was enough. It wasn’t that he’d ever doubted his worth – because he hadn’t – but rather that he had never really realised that he was worth _so much._ All because _I make Yuri Plisetsky feel things._  

At the slightest pressure – the twitch of Yuri’s left knee – Otabek was on his feet, offering his hand down to his training partner. Yuri took it, and Otabek swung him up into standing. He had perhaps done this in too much of a snap, because Yuri’s cheeks plummeted from red to a tepid sort of green colour. 

Otabek did not let go of Yuri’s hand. Yuri did not let go of Otabek’s hand. There was no reason for either of them to, and in not doing so they both gained something (although only Otabek had any idea of what, precisely, that might be). It felt like going nowhere fast. Like belonging. Like all of the sharp edges had been cushioned with clouds. 

“Beka?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I’m sorry.” Yuri’s face drooped, but his eyes had slipped into a kind of void hardness that Otabek had learnt to recognise as something halfway between reluctance and defence. He found himself giving Yuri’s hand a squeeze. “For last night. I. I was a moron.” 

“No, you weren’t.” Otabek squeezed again, and Yuri squeezed back. It felt like progress. “You were just a little lost. Besides,” he sighed into a lopsided smile, “it was fun. We had to keep stopping on the way home so you could terrorise the poor neighbourhood cats.” 

“I can’t remember.” Yuri shook his head; his wildfire gaze glued studiously to the floor. “I can’t really remember anything from last night. So. Sorry, if I.” 

“Don’t worry about it, Yura.” Otabek paused, mulling something over. “You were adorable.” 

Yuri made an inhuman blackhole of a noise that was halfway between a gasp, a screech and a hiss. _Yes,_ Otabek thought, _I should call him adorable more often._ Because then Yuri was glaring at him, the expression cutting into his jaw and making bullets of his eyes, and the human boy was _burning_. Fire suited him. 

“Let’s see how _adorable,_ ” Yuri spat the word, and suddenly his _misericorde_ was writing rhymes at his side, “you think I am after I kick your ass.” 

And then they were sparring again, Yurio going at him like a whirlwind, like a wildcat, and it felt so much like _living_ that Otabek questioned if he’d ever even really been alive before he’d met Yuri Plisetsky. 

It was over in under thirty seconds; Otabek was on his back, the neck of his t-shirt spilled close to his shoulder, a slayer on his chest and a dagger at his throat. It crossed his mind that, maybe, _this is the best fucking thing oh my god_ was not the best response to have to such a situation, but there it was.

The smirk on Yuri’s face was enough to make Otabek melt. He shut his eyes, for just a second, and when he opened them again, the blade of Yuri’s weapon was glowing a seething gold-orange. The slayer pulled it away and waved it around like a sparkler, drawing awed arches in the air with it, and Otabek could feel every slice of movement against his ribs as Yuri swung around, casting spells. 

“See?” Otabek gestured up at Yuri. “You’re adorable.” 

“Shut up.” And the dagger was back at his throat, a breath away from pain. They were both smiling. They were both teenagers. “I could literally kill you right now, and you think I’m fucking _adorable_?” 

“Honestly?” Otabek shrugged, his voice a slithered tease of a thing. “If anything, that adds to the appeal.” 

“You’re fucked up.” 

Before Otabek could dispute this, not unsubstantiated, claim he was cut off by something deep and pooling and sweet and sharp and wantwantwant. _Blood._  

“Beka?” Yuri was leaning down over him, close enough that whispers of winter sunshine flickered against Otabek’s jaw, and he had to shove the slayer off because, although his self-control was something Otabek prided himself in, he would _never_ put Yuri at risk. He jolted himself to his knees. “What is it?” 

Otabek couldn’t open his mouth. His second set of teeth wasn’t up, but if he opened his mouth, if he could _taste_ the blood, it would be. And there wasn’t a whole lot of going back from that. His insides were draining into something vacuous, something cavernous, empty, _hungry_ , but no. _No. Think of Yuri. Green eyes and blond hair and something to protect and a playpark in Almaty._

He let his mouth shudder open, and there was nothing pricking at his gums. Immediately, he flicked his eyes to Yuuri. And _oh. Oh no._  

Because there the Ice Dragon was, cut into something sharp and still and suspended. Two _shashkas_ were on the floor, and if Otabek focused in he could see a ridge of red on one of them. But the blood had smelt unmistakably _human_ , and that was because Yuuri was  _too good_ at swordplay and Viktor, although coming on in leaps and bounds, _wasn’t_. 

Viktor was stood, his blue eyes two lunar beacons, a dribble of blood running down his neck, captained by a fat, juicy rivulet the colour of sin. It was a small cut. A tiny one. All it needed was an antiseptic wipe and a plaster. 

Otabek knew what was going to happen before it did; if the sudden plummet of the temperature wasn’t enough of a clue, the frenetic bassline of Yuuri’s heartbeat was. He didn’t have to be able to see Yuuri’s eyes to know what colour they were. From the small _o_ of Viktor’s mouth, Otabek could tell that he knew too. There was nothing to be done. 

There was no time to act, but Otabek carved time to bark out, “Yura, _shut your eyes_.” 

And then, Yuuri was latched onto Viktor’s neck with the beartrap of his jaws, the two of them thudding to the ground in a slow-motion plummet. There was blood, blood everywhere and even if he hadn’t known it was Yuuri’s first time feeding on a human, Otabek would have been able to tell by the messiness of it. Within seconds, they were a ragged, heaving island breaking the skin of a crimson sea. Viktor hadn’t even had time to scream. 

A siren was whirring in sharp barbs, but nobody was _doing_ anything. It had been too quick. Otabek, maybe, could have tried – but no. The Ice Dragon would have wiped him off of the face of the Earth and, for all his morals, Otabek was not about to get himself killed over Viktor Nikiforov. So nobody was doing anything, because Yuuri was _one of them_. And that had been their first mistake.

But then, Yuri _was_ doing something. The seventeen-year-old was pounding across the concrete floor, _misericorde_ static in his hand, and Otabek found himself on his feet, knees creased, ready, because he had no qualms at all about getting himself killed over Yuri Plisetsky. 

As soon as Yuri was within an echo of the disaster, blood touching the toes of his boots, Yuuri threw Viktor’s body to the side. _No,_ Otabek realised, listening hard and able to pick out the thready whimper of a heartbeat, _not a body. He’s not dead._ He was mildly surprised to find that he was relieved. If he looked at Yuri’s face, he found that he knew why. 

Yuuri slithered to his full height, the arching curve of his back serpentine, and Otabek watched as they both squared up. Other voices blurred in – _Jesus Christ Jesus fucking Christ_ (Georgi) and  _get away from him Yurio get away it’s okay_ (Mila) and _you bought this threat in here you clean up your mess_ (Yakov) – but everything _felt_ silent. Glassy. Trapped in ice. 

“Yuuri.” Yuri’s voice was a crack, an underwater gunshot. He was not crying, and that somehow made it hurt more. 

Otabek watched, flames playing at his fingertips, as his slayer raised up his _misericorde_. He watched as Yuuri coiled himself up, spring-loaded. He watched as neither of them did anything, just the two of them stood there, in a bubble, breathing. He watched Yuri’s dagger clattered to the ground with a wrench of _I fucking can’t_ and _I can’t breathe_. 

Yuuri flickered, and Otabek could physically _feel it_. But then, Yuuri started to spring and _no not him not my human don’t you fucking dare you fucking hypocrite._ Otabek had never felt himself burn so awfully, so openly, so gloriously. 

In a blaze of fire he was there, and it wasn’t even a question. He wound himself tightly around the younger teen, making armour of himself, and he took what Yuuri gave without so much as a flinch because it was an _honour_ to be protecting Yuri.

What Yuuri gave happened to be a snowstorm of ice, sharp, tiny shatters that bit into Otabek’s skin like glass, the vast majority melting on impact. The pain of it, the burning rip of myriad tiny incisions, didn’t matter. Not when he could feel Yuri shaking against him, barely breathing, panicking, so terrified and lost and broken. He checked and let out a loose sigh at the sound of Viktor’s heartbeat because he understood that losing the silver-haired slayer would be to lose his own. 

It didn’t even occur to Otabek that everything smelt of blood. 

“ _Yurio_.” It was a gasp of a sound, and Otabek felt the addressed still into rigidity against him. Yuuri’s eyes were an empty, vacuous whirl of grey smoke, a whisper of purple. “What. I. I don’t, know. Did.” Yuuri shook his head, taking everything in with wide, sweeping gazes. If it hadn’t been for Yuri, Otabek might have felt sorry for him. “Blood, there’s.” 

Already the other three – Mila and Georgi and Yakov – were at Viktor’s side. The siren was still going off, but Otabek couldn’t really hear it. There was groaning and _shush you’re going to be okay_ , but Yuuri didn’t look around. No. He had his eyes glued to Yuri, and when the youngest of them shed Otabek, Otabek immediately knew why; a smudge of blood – of _Otabek’s_ blood – was clinging to Yuri’s cheek. 

“You’re hurt.” Yuuri’s voice was a whiny ache, something about it worn and high, a rope with only one thread left. He looked dizzy, Otabek thought, like a ghost. Like an almost nothing. _He doesn’t even know what he’s done._ “Did I…” 

Yuri’s lips wavered, pulsed, pulled down into a scowl, ruptured up into blankness. And he said nothing. Yuuri’s face was nothing but blood and concern, a paradox. He reached forwards, fingertips stretching towards the crimson smudge on Yuri’s cheek, and Otabek had to grab onto Yuri’s waist to stop the slayer from bolting. The flinch, the stumble, however, appeared to be more than enough to cut Yuuri. The Ice Dragon made a wet sound. _Good_. 

The elevator doors slid open, and a small team of slayers bustled through, a stretcher between them. The screeching of the alarm was cut off mid breath. They were medics, Otabek assumed, and Yuuri didn’t even look around as they slid Viktor onto the stretcher. He was just stood there, a shadow, gaze fixated on his own hands. 

“Yura,” Otabek’s voice was a gruff mumble, “you should go with him.” 

He gave Yuri’s waist a squeeze and then dropped his arm, but no. No. Yuri wasn’t moving. His face was blank and pale, swallowed into a scream; his pupils were as wide as headlights; there were tremors racing through him; and the razor rhythm of his heart was loud enough, fast enough that Otabek was half surprised that it wasn’t audible to the humans present. Otabek had been around death and destruction enough to know shock when he saw it. He reached to take Yuri’s hands and the reaction was limp, passive. The fire was gone. Burnt out. Otabek, in that instant, decided that the list of humans he would, in fact, get himself killed for extended to Viktor Nikiforov. 

There was a pause. Otabek tried to fill it with something, anything, but there was nothing. Nothing apart from the two heartrates Otabek had tuned himself into. 

“He’s still alive.” He made a point of talking slowly, clearly. Yuri blinked. “He’s going to be okay. You trust me, don’t you?” Yuri didn’t nod, and Otabek was vaguely aware that the pain he felt at the absence was selfish. “He’s going to be alright. Viktor’s alive.” 

“Viktor?” Yuuri’s voice was robotic, each syllable a creaking joint. “I. did.” The Ice Dragon swung his head around to look, and it was palpable, the moment he pieced it together. He made a choking sound. “ _Vitya._ ” It was not a scream, but a bleed. “Viktor. Vitya. I. What.” 

As soon as Yuuri stepped towards the stretcher – where Viktor was tucked, the wrong colour for sleep – Yuri was there, blocking him off. But there was no fight in him, just grey and red and _please don’t hurt him I don’t fucking care what you to do me but don’t hurt him_ , his shoulders down, everything about him draining out. Otabek knew he didn’t need to get in between them but, still, a shot of protectiveness gilded through his veins. 

Yuuri did not try to get any closer. He did not try to follow the huddle of slayers as they headed for the elevator, Yuri amongst them but walking backwards, trying to shield Viktor from something that would never come. Otabek wanted to dash after him, to wet the pad of his thumb and smooth it over Yuri’s cheek until the virgule of his own blood had faded to nothing. 

But he didn’t. He had something else to deal with first. Yuri, he suspected, wasn’t really with it enough to register his absence anyway. And besides – even if Otabek did have a will of steel, it was probably for the best that he stayed away until Viktor had been sewn up. 

As soon as the elevator doors slid shut, Yuuri crumpled to his knees, a puppet with its stings sliced. Coils of ice mapped through the training room in thick ridges; apart from where Otabek was stood, the halo of concrete around his feet too hot for any ice to settle. He took a stride forwards, and the halo moved with him. 

Otabek Altin had never felt so fundamentally _furious._ Perhaps, it would have been more accurate to describe Otabek as feeling _vengeful._ Because Yuri hadn’t been crying. He hadn’t been fighting. He had just stood there, lost, ready to get hurt, and it was _Yuuri’s_ fault. 

He understood. Of course he did. Otabek knew, first-hand, what it was to blackout like that – to know, to feel, to _be_ nothing but _hungry._ Yuuri had been growing in power lately, in heaving leaps and striving bounds, Otabek could feel it, and that was enough to explain; things like this happened all of the time with adolescents growing into their power. It was _normal._  It hadn’t been Yuuri’s fault. Not at all. Not really. And Otabek _knew_ that. But he didn’t fucking _care_. Because of a long-dead little girl in a playpark in Almaty with green eyes and blonde hair. Because of Yuri Plisetsky. Or, Otabek thought, because of both. 

_I saved her I saved the green-eyed girl I saved her._

As soon as he reached Yuuri, a crumpled heap on the floor, face buried in his hands as he keened and hiccupped and fell apart, Otabek didn’t even think twice about it. He kicked the Ice Dragon. In the back. _Hard_. And then again, and again, until Yuuri was face-down in the congealing pool of Viktor’s blood. Otabek was not a hero, and Yuuri was not a villain. 

It took too long for Yuuri to sit himself back up. His face was more blood than skin, and Otabek saw himself staring back. Empty. Open. _Scared._  

“I don’t _remember._ ” Yuuri ran his fingers through his hair over, and over, and over again. “I can’t. I. I don’t.” 

“Let’s just say,” Otabek forced himself to snarl, to smirk, “you took the term ‘ _love bite’_ a little bit _too_ literally.” He started to pace, his movement a fluid prowl covering up the frenetic jitter of his heartbeat. “You’re a mess. A disgrace. At least I never got _engaged_ to any of my meals.” 

“Shut up.” 

“They’re never going to trust you again. Especially not Yuri.” Otabek stopped, swallowed. “He thinks you’re a _monster_. I mean, he thinks the same of me. But at least I never tried to persuade him any different.” 

“ _Shut up!”_ The blood on the floor crackled as it crystallised and shattered into tiny rubies, the quartz of Yuuri’s shout resonating through it. “Please. _Please._ I didn’t. I don’t. I don’t remember it. I hurt them. I _hurt_ them.” 

Otabek paused for a moment, letting heat ripple through him because there had been a high twinge to Yuuri’s voice that had vaguely reminded him of Yuri, before he said, “you didn’t hurt Yuri.” 

“B-but, but. There was blood. On his.” The older dragon traced a fingertip along his cheek, tracking a trail through sticky  

“It was mine.” 

“You.” Yuuri blinked once, twice, three times, mouthing words loosely around his lips. “You saved him.” The _from me_ was left unsaid, but Otabek heard it all the same, and the fire in his lungs dulled to a smoky haze. Because he _understood_. Because he had been there, and Otabek Altin didn’t _do_ guilt. “You should be with him. With Yuri. He. He really likes you. Thinks the world of you. Otabek,” Yuuri’s eyes met Otabek’s and it _hurt_ to see someone so great, so powerful, look so _lost_ , “Yurio _needs_ you. So go. Go to him.” 

Maybe Otabek should have thought it through. Maybe he should have said _what about you?_ Maybe, he should have stayed down there with Yuuri Katsuki and helped the older dragon wash the blood of his fiancé from his face, his hair, his underneath his nails. 

But he didn’t. Because Yuuri was right. _Yura needs me._

 

* * *

 

There were two thoughts in Yurio’s head. The first was _you bought this threat in here_ , which echoed around and mutated into _this is your fault you ruined everything you couldn’t protect him moron worthless nothing it’s your fault Viktor’s hurt it’s your fault home is ruined it’s your fault your fault your fault yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._ It felt like suffocating. 

The second thought went thus: _I need to get Makkachin here because Viktor loves Makkachin and when he wakes up he might smile if Makkachin is here and I want Makkachin here because she knows how to make us happy she gives good hugs._  

It wasn’t Yurio’s first time in the Shield’s hospital wing. In fact, he knew most of the nurses and both of the doctors by name. As a child, he’d become a regular; Yakov was a firm believer in _pain is the best teacher_ and, with little Yurio running around with all manner of sharp, pointy antiquities, he had been no stranger to the hospital wing. In fact, the doctor had bought a big tub of lollipops to have ready for the Shield’s youngest member (until, of course, Yakov had found out). It was, however, for all of the slayers he had known who had died there, Yurio’s first time as a _visitor._  

He thought that it should feel _horrible_ , seeing Viktor there, laid on a bed, all of the colour bleached from him, hooked up to a bag of blood, bandages wound around his neck. But it didn’t. It didn’t feel like anything. 

A heart monitor thudded along in digitised beeps, making a melody of _yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._ Yurio wanted to scream at it to shut the fuck up, that he knew it was his fault, that he didn’t need to be fucking told because he fucking knew and he was so fucking tired and he just wanted to fucking die. But no. His mouth wouldn’t work. He opened it, and it was all nothing. 

Both of his hands were clamped around one of Viktor’s, trying to rub warmth into it but then no, no _Viktor likes being cold._  

“Yura?” 

Yurio turned his head and blinked because _when did Otabek get here?_ He couldn’t remember. How long had _he_ been sat there, even? An hour? No. It had only been minutes, hadn’t it? But then, no, because it was dark outside the window and he could definitely remember that it hadn’t been when he’d last looked. It had been sunny. 

It didn’t matter. He looked back down at Viktor’s hand. He could remember the first time he’d held that hand, as a lost and frightened eleven-year-old. Because he had been lost, and he had been frightened because he couldn’t ever really remember _not_ being either of those things. Viktor’s hands had seemed so big to him, like books, like castles, but now they only scarcely shadowed Yurio’s. They were just hands. Too soft for swords. 

“Yura.” 

Who was that? Yurio forced himself to look in the direction of the warm, steady voice and _oh it’s Otabek._  

He waited for three counts of _yourfaultyourfaultyourfault_ , and then turned his face back to Viktor. It was his job to look after the Chosen One. It was his job to play guardian. Only, his head didn’t make it the full way around because fingers were cupping around his chin and he just sort of let it happen because _nothing fucking matters I hope he breaks my neck._  

“I.” Otabek sighed. Fingers fell away from Yurio’s face and the loss hurt. “I’m here for you. I won’t let anything bad happen.” He was talking at snail’s pace, and if Yurio had been in the right state of mind he might have found it patronising, but as it was, he found it extremely soothing. A warm tide lapping up against a beach. “You’re safe. Viktor’s safe.” A pause. It flashed in neon against the back of Yurio’s eyelids because _someone’s missing._ “Yuuri’s… Yuuri’s safe too.” Another pause stretched out, and it felt like salve on a burn. “Yura? Are you hearing any of what I’m saying to you?” 

Yurio nodded. Just the once. It only seemed fair. He flicked his gaze back to Viktor and, _thank God,_ he was still there. A steady rhythm of _yourfaultyourfaultyourfault_ was beating away in the corner. 

Something warm curled itself around Yurio’s shoulder, pressed in against his face. He breathed in and it was leather and petrol and smoke. _Otabek_. Half of his face tucked against the gooey-stiff kind of softness of Otabek’s jacket, he kept one eye on Viktor and let himself slump, let himself melt, let himself lean on someone strong. It was all he had the energy to do. It almost felt like resting. It did feel like defeat.

Time blurred into a forever. He became less aware of the fact that Otabek was hugging him – the warmth of it, the softness, the glow – and more aware of the fact that he wasn’t alone. His world narrowed itself back down to Viktor and _I need to get Makkachin here_ and _yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._  

He was aware that his throat was too dry, but he didn’t _feel_ thirsty. He didn’t feel anything. It  _scared_ him.

There was a knock on the door and it was left to Otabek to say, “come in.” Yurio could feel the words forming in the core of Otabek’s throat, a warm rumble in the older boy’s chest. 

Mila slipped through the door. She looked tired, and Yurio had never really seen her looking tired for as long as he’d known her. Her hair was too red, too deep, too dark. So he shut his eyes. _Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

“Mila?” Yurio could hear the frown in Otabek’s voice. “What’s wrong?” 

“It’s Yuuri. He’s gone.”

Yurio forced his eyes open. He couldn't rest yet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. Why did Phichit make Yuuri take Otabek hunting? Because he knows that Yuuri is getting in the way (or is trying to) of anything that might happen between Otabek and Yurio.
> 
> 2\. There are two reasons for Yuuri's hatred of Otabek. The first is that he's extremely protective over Yurio; he sees himself in Yuri, he sees vulnerability there and all he wants to do is keep Yurio safe (hence, later on, it takes seeing Yurio bloody for him to snap out of it). The second is that Yuuri is projecting his own fears about himself onto Otabek. 
> 
> 3\. How do Otabek and Yuuri match up? Yuuri is by far the more powerful out of the two of them. Otabek, however, is more skilled and has much better self control. Yuuri is raw plutonium, and Otabek is a finely-sharpened rapier.
> 
> 4\. With the walking-down-the-street scene, I wanted to show just how well Viktor knows Yuuri. He immediately knows that Yuuri is uncomfortable, and can gauge how bad it is just from seeing Yuuri reach into his pocket. When it comes to Yuuri's anxiety, Viktor is patient and gentle and tries his best to be understanding.
> 
> 5\. There are two things I want to say about the rings. The first is that Yuuri got the money for them from Shield - although he doesn't get a full slayer wage, Phichit has pulled Yakov's strings into sneaking Yuuri onto the payroll. He's been saving up. The second thing is that - as suggested by his apparent distancing from Viktor - Yuuri knows something bad is about to happen. He knows it's only so long until he snaps but he can't bring himself to leave because he loves his pack too much. So he buys the rings as a way of a) showing Viktor how much he loves him and b) telling himself that everything's fine, and c) to hopefully tie them together when things go tits up.
> 
> 6\. 'You make me feel things'. Could this be interpreted as 'I love you'? Perhaps - that's not for me to decide! But, it could also be taken as literally _everything was so numb and dark but now you're here and I'm feeling things_ which, maybe, is more than 'I love you'. A summary of what I think feelings are at the moment between Otabek and Yurio. Otabek: extremely attracted to Yurio, feels the need to protect him, respects and cares about him immensely, probably a fair bit in love. Yurio: attracted to/is curious about Otabek, has a crush on him, is still a bit wary of but overall trusts Otabek, sees him as an equal, as someone who could maybe shoulder the burden, thinks he's cool and fun, likes his cat.
> 
> 7\. The 'are you going to kiss me' bit is meant to echo last chapter, when Otabek assumed that was why Yurio had asked to meet him. Otabek saying no is meant to show how much he cares about Yuri; Otabek does want to kiss him (as shown by the last chapter) but knows that Yurio is too drunk to make proper decisions, that Yurio is, at best, conflicted about the whole thing. So he doesn't. Keep in mind that, whilst Yurio is pretty wasted, Otabek is at least tipsy. 
> 
> 8\. If Yurio is this tough, fearless slayer then wtf happened to protecting Viktor? He's already a bit of a wreck - exhausted, conflicted about new feelings, the weight of the world on his shoulders - and on top of that he _has_ come to see Yuuri as family. He can't bring himself to hurt this person who's become a part of his family, who he's let down his walls a little bit for, who understands him (in many ways, better than Viktor does). It's been deeply enshrined in him to protect Viktor, and Viktor is pretty much Yurio's world, and seeing him so torn apart by the one other person he's let in, is kind of the thing that has made Yurio pretty much snap. I had the Wikipedia page for shock open whilst I wrote his immediate reaction. 
> 
> 9\. Justification for Yuuri's attack; as he grows in power, the harder it is for him to resist bloodlust. Right from the go he's been fantasising about killing Viktor - not because he wants to, but because it's in his blood. Viktor gets cut at practice, and it sends Yuuri into a bloodlust frenzy over which he has no control. He had literally no idea about what he was doing. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope it was okay! :)
> 
>  
> 
> Viktuuri playlist:  
> \- Kissing You Goodbye by The Used  
> \- Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls  
> \- Far Too Young to Die by Panic! At The Disco  
> \- Weak by AJR  
> \- Centuries by Fall Out Boy
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter: Yuuri is scared, Otabek is The Voice of Reason, Phichit just wants to tuck his best friend back together, Viktor wakes up, and Yurio gets some sleep.
> 
>  
> 
> Feel free to come say hi to me on my tumblr, [here.](http://unicornsandbandsandstuff.tumblr.com/)


	12. Wake Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone who has read/commented/left kudos on this fic - it really means a lot to me! With this chapter, Destiny May Ride With Us hits 100k - thank you (and well done) for sticking with me this far! I can't really believe that I've written something this long. I wouldn't have been able to do it without your support. <3
> 
> I'm not sure if I like how this chapter came out (I've been falling out of love with it a little bit, and also uni coursework is eating me alive - I'm a Creative Writing and Journalism student, so a lot of my writing energy is going on that) but I really hope you guys like it :)

 

It was all ice, and all that wasn’t ice was blood.

The place that had become universally known as Viktor and Yuuri’s Forest was unrecognisable. The green had been smothered in a greying white, the trees weighed down by heavy clumps of crystallised snow. The respiratory system of streams had turned solid, a fist of ice punching through it, a dagger. It wasn’t snowing. Not in the conventional sense. Crystals, shards, splinters of ice hung in the air, suspended, giving the impression that the forest was trapped in Perspex, unmoving, unbreathing, suffocated. Cobwebs had become diamond necklaces. Grass had become pinpricks, brittle enough to shatter at a breath. Only one part of the forest was spared; a small patch of forget-me-nots, wavering in a corps-de-ballet in one of the clearings. 

From the south-east corner of the forest to the epicentre was a confetti trail of corpses. Foxes, mostly. Badgers. A deer here and there. A single grey heron, the bloody reach of its headless neck elongated to a nearby promise of water never to be fulfilled. The heron was the worst of the lot; the other breadcrumbs to the trail only had a single wound – the fatal one, usually a gaping blackhole over their neck, jugular ripped and leaking. It was not the work of a hunter. 

The stars were hiding behind a weep of clouds. 

And thus, Yuuri was in the dark. He felt it fitting, to be in the cold and in the dark, surrounded by death. It was all he deserved. It was what he was built for, if he was built for anything. If he was built at all. He was an accident, a freak, a _monster._ And now, all of the people he loved knew it too. 

His fingertips were torn to shreds from pushing down his second set of teeth. His wings ached so deeply that he barely even felt it, but he was not letting them out; the forest screamed freedom to them, and it was a strain to keep them folded up. 

Yuuri was knelt at the edge of a stream, repeatedly pressing his hands to the ice, hoping that it would somehow melt at least into a slush because his hands were bloody and it was _Viktor’s_ blood but no, no it wasn’t melting because Yuuri was a being carved of ice. He was not _human_. He smacked his palms against the skin of the stream. Nothing happened, but the sting of it was grounding. 

He felt dirty. Filthy. Covered. Asphyxiated. He scoured his cheeks with his nails, flakes of blood getting wedged under them, but even then he could still feel it clinging to his face, forming a tight second skin. Showing the world who he was. 

All he wanted was to lay down, shut his eyes, and wake up. Because this was a nightmare. It had to be. He was wise enough to know that things _this_ bad did happen to people and very much so could happen to him – but not to Viktor. Viktor was not built for hurting. He was built for smiles and laughter and colour. Kisses bathed in moonlight, cuddles under the gaze of the Saturday morning sun. 

Hidden under a thick layer of claret grime was Yuuri’s ring. He wondered if Viktor was still wearing his, and felt guilty for hoping that he was. Because Yuuri loved Viktor, so much that it terrified him; so much that, under any other circumstance, he would have rolled his eyes at the notion that one person could feel so much love, could feel so _much_. And that was precisely why he was in the forest - far away from Viktor, but close in all of the ways that mattered. He knew he didn’t deserve to be there, that he was sin walking into a cathedral, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to move. Everything in him was burning, and he pictured the flames as being love-heart blue. Forget-me-not blue. 

A wave of nausea crashed in his gut, swirling and swelling, and he hacked deep in the back of his throat, and spat out a globule of saliva that turned to ice almost instantaneously. He wanted the taste of blood out of his mouth. The taste of _Viktor_. Because that’s what it was. He’d tried, blindly, gropingly, to wash it out with animals but they’d all tasted bitter, like charcoal, and all he was left with was _burning._ He had never felt so cold. 

Yuuri’s gaze fell to his hands. To his ring. And he started to hate himself all over again. _I’m better off dead_ drifted across his mind in stark splatters, but was quickly wiped clean with a wash of _Yurio needs me_. Because the teenager did, if only from a distance. Yurio might hate him, _should_ hate him, and Yuuri could maybe live with that – but he knew, the truth of it lining the walls of his muscles, that he had to look out for Yurio. _I have to protect my young_. 

“Well, well. Follow the trail of ice and dead animals,” the voice was a scraped-up wall hidden behind a drape of smoke, “and here you are.” 

Yuuri didn’t even have to look around. 

“Otabek. Y-you. You’re supposed to be with Yurio.” Yuuri had never really quantified himself as being _young_ , but in that moment it struck him just how _old_ he sounded. Hoarse. Aching. Suddenly, his arms felt too empty. He wanted to be in bed, to have Viktor asleep next to him, to be singing pretty songs of faraway times and long-ago places to his fiancé. He shut his eyes because he didn’t deserve to cry. He opened them again and, even in the smog-thick darkness of the night, everything was too bright. “What are you doing here? Is it Viktor?” 

“Viktor is going to be okay.” Otabek stepped forwards, everything about him in a respectful decline and Yuuri wasn’t quite sure if the posture was sincerity or mockery but he didn’t care. He didn’t get up. “They’ve stitched him up. Given him blood transfusions. If you hadn’t stopped when you did…” 

“He’d be dead.” The word felt like a bullet whistling through his throat. He'd had to say it. He deserved to say it.

“But you did.” There was something so certain, so calm about Otabek’s voice that Yuuri, for all of his scattered disarray, couldn’t help but listen. The teenager dropped to a crouch, and Yuuri could make out the worn sharpness of his face, the smudges of tiredness warping his skin like bruises. “You did stop. And that’s more than most would have done. _Could_ have done.” 

“Why are you here, Otabek?” 

“Because Yura needs you.” 

“He thinks I’m a monster. You said so yourself. He’s not wrong.” Yuuri shook his head. He reached out to press his hands to the suspended stream. “He’s not wrong.” He mouthed the words more than spoke them. 

“He doesn’t think that, Yuuri.” Otabek sighed, raked a hand through his hair. Yuuri watched as the teenager felt in his pocket only to find it empty. “But he is scared. He’d kill me for telling you this, but. He loves you. You’re his family. You _care_ about him, and that’s enough. So don’t you fucking dare think about abandoning him.” 

Yuuri had to just _stop_ for a moment. Because none of this was making sense. He shut his eyes and pulled together his thoughts. First of all, _Viktor is okay._ He saturated himself in the fact, breathed it in, exhaled it out and then dragged it back in again, right into the depths of his lungs. That was all that mattered. The blood on his hands paled in comparison because now, he knew, it would wash off. In time. Maybe. 

_Yurio’s scared_ , was the second thought occupying Yuuri’s head. And it felt like a bleed because all Yuuri wanted to do was make it better, but he just didn’t know if he could. _I’m a monster and I can’t be near them but Yurio needs me and he’s my young and I have to protect him_. 

Abandoning his humans, Yuuri had to admit, was an idea he’d been toying with. Only, he hadn’t labelled the concept as abandonment. No, he’d called it _doing the right thing and keeping my distance keeping them safe._ But now, he could see. 

“I wouldn’t. I. I couldn’t.” The words came out like the creak of rusty hinges. “He’s my young.” It was the only logical thing to say. 

“Damn right he is.” Otabek shifted closer, and Yuuri let him. He watched, head tilted, as the teenage firebreather pressed his hand to the choked stream; there was a scream of atomic orange, a roar of fire engulfing up to Otabek’s elbow, and then, nothing. And then, the soft, twinkling trickle of running water. Yuuri blinked once, twice. “Go on then.” Otabek shrugged like it was nothing. “Clean yourself up.” 

Yuuri didn’t need to be told twice. He plunged his hands in first, turning his nails to claws and scrubbing with them until his skin was red but not from blood. He pooled a breath of water in his hands and held it to his face, but it wasn’t enough and he needed to be _clean_ so he ducked his head into the water, scratching it, scouring, trying to rip the blood from his cheeks and chin and nose. The water scraped up into his nostrils, bayed at his lips, but he didn’t care, he _couldn’t_ care – so what if he drowned himself? What did that matter, just as long as he died _clean_. 

His lungs started to warp and convulse as they hollowed, nothing to grab onto, and instinct forced Yuuri to surface. He ran his hands through his hair, and the dregs of water that dribbled from it were rose-tinted. Otabek wasn’t looking at him – the teenager was wholly focussed on a coin of fire he had rolling across the back of his fingers like a magic trick – and Yuuri, not for the first time that day, felt nothing but gratitude towards Otabek Altin. _He saved Yurio. From me._ A slither of a whisper hissed _what does Yurio need you for if he’s got Otabek Altin_ , but Yuuri shook his head. Yurio _did_ need him. He felt it in his bones. 

“There’s this park,” Otabek began, and the steady-quiet bassline of his voice was sudden enough to make Yuuri jump. “In Almaty, Kazakhstan. A playpark – you know, one with swings and a slide. For little kids.” Yuuri nodded, because it seemed to be needed. Still, Otabek wasn’t looking at him but, rather, up into the clouds as though to the stars beyond. “In it there’s a bench with a little bronze plaque on it. _In loving memory of Sabina Aliyev, an angel called home too soon._ She died when she was nine and three twelfths _._ They never found either her body nor her killer.” He darted his eyes to Yuuri, and they were a washed-out brown, a sigh of a colour. “Ask me how I know. _Ask me_.” 

“How.” Yuuri wet his lower lip and it tasted of frost, of fresh water. There was no blood. “How do you know?” 

“Because I killed her.” 

“A _child?”_ Yuuri couldn’t hide his disgust because it was an unwritten rule, a statement as clear as midsummer stars; _all young are precious._ “You killed a _child?”_

“I was a child too. I was younger than her. Seven years old.” It didn’t sound like defence, but there was this look on Otabek’s face, distant and hard, and all Yuuri saw was Yurio. _I made my first kill when I was six._ “I had this stupid crush on her. She just. She had these green eyes, y’know? I can’t remember a lot about her, but I remember those eyes. I see them every day.” Otabek shut his own eyes, and Yuuri knew what he was seeing. “We played hide and seek. And then, I just.” A sigh. Eyes open. Going nowhere fast. “Well. I blacked-out. She was my Viktor, but not quite as lucky. My point,” Otabek eased to his feet and the ground around him thawed, “is that whenever I want to hunt a human, whenever I get _hungry,_ I think of those green eyes. And it works, every time. Because I know it won’t bring her back, but I _can_ save the next green-eyed girl.” He offered a hand down to Yuuri. “Let Viktor be _your_ green-eyed girl.” 

Yuuri let himself take Otabek’s hand, and the younger dragon hauled him to his feet. The world shifted, slipped around him, and his stomach squeezed into a fist. He shut his eyes, breathed in, out, and opened them again. The white smothering the forest took on a glacial blue tinge. 

He watched Otabek turn and start to walk away, but Yuuri stayed still. _I can’t go back. Not yet._ Because he _would_ go back; he wouldn’t, as Otabek had put it, abandon his pack. But not now. Not yet. 

“I.” Yuuri cleared his throat; it crackled like ice. “I need to see Phichit.” 

“Of course you do.” Otabek half-nodded, the movement more of a comma than a full stop. “That’s where we’re going.” 

Whilst in the forest, they didn’t run. They walked, human-slow. Because the second they left the embrace of woodland, the world would come back to life, and reality would be real once more. Yuuri didn’t look where he was going – no; his attention was taken up with the thin halo of pocked metal hooped around his finger. It felt warm. Like bodyheat. Like Viktor _._ Like home. 

“Yura likes it, you know,” Otabek started, after a stretch of soft quiet. He was a few strides ahead of Yuuri, carving a shadow of black leather against the endless white. He didn’t look round as he spoke. “When you get on my back. It makes him feel cared about. So. Just because we had a _moment_ and I told you my Tragic Backstory, it doesn’t mean you have to act like we’re best friends. Because I’m still pissed at you for scaring Yuri. And I _know_ you still think I'm not good enough for him.” 

Even though he knew Otabek couldn’t see him, Yuuri nodded. _Maybe Otabek Altin isn’t as tough as everyone thinks._ Or, Yuuri thought, maybe he was, and that was _precisely_ why he was what Yurio needed. And, perhaps, why Otabek Altin needed Yurio. 

As soon as they broke the skin of the forest they both jetted into blurs, leaving contrails of sparks and frost in their wake.

  

* * *

 

“Yuri. _Please_. Come on, kitten.”

Yurio knew there was something deeply wrong for two reasons; firstly, because Mila was babying him (without the intention of teasing), and, secondly, because he found that he didn’t much mind it. He couldn’t even bring himself to scowl. 

“At least have something to drink. Pass me that, Georgi. Look, here. Orange juice. Can you drink it for me? You can do that, can’t you, Yuri?” 

He was aware, vaguely, on the periphery of his vision, of a carton of orange juice being held out to him. It was bright blue, which didn’t really make sense because orange juice is _orange._ The straw was white, and there was something comforting in that. He wasn’t sure what. 

Yurio didn’t take the carton. He wasn’t thirsty. His mouth was dry, and his throat stung with it, but he wasn’t thirsty. He wasn’t _anything_. Besides, if he reached to take the drink then that would mean one of his hands wouldn’t be touching Viktor, and he needed to keep everything focused on Viktor because _I need to keep him safe it’s my job to keep him safe he’s my family and I don’t have anything if I don’t have him_. 

The heart monitor had been deemed no longer necessary, but Yurio could still heart it. _Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault_. 

He didn’t deserve something as nice as orange juice, just like he didn’t deserve someone as nice as Viktor. People like Yuri Plisetsky didn’t _get_ nice things – he knew that now, knew the consequences of reaching for that which was out of bounds – and they sure as shit didn’t get a family. Or a _pack_. He had been a moron to ever think otherwise. 

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._  

“Yuri?” Georgi’s voice was an ache. “Come on, kiddo.” _I’m not a kid I never was a kid I didn’t get that I didn’t get to be a kid so don’t you fucking call me fucking kiddo_. “Can he even hear us?” 

“Of course he can. So don’t talk about him like he isn’t here.” Mila didn’t sound as angry, as fiery, as she perhaps should have. Yurio nodded, once, because it was the least Mila deserved, and he took a special kind of delight in proving Georgi wrong. Mila’s voice had softened again when she purred out, “come on, Yuri. Just a sip.”

“If Otabek comes back and finds we’ve let you dehydrate he’ll kill us.”

_Otabek_. Yes. That sounded good right then, Yurio thought. He was too adrift to ignore the idea of _I want Otabek here with me I want to feel warm I want him to hug me_. Because Otabek had been there, earlier, hadn’t he? He’d been holding Yurio and Yurio had felt something like peace. When had Otabek left him? _Why_ had Otabek left him? He knew the answer. 

_Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

“Look what you’ve done,” Mila hissed and, up until Georgi’s blur of _what I didn’t do anything_ , Yurio thought it had been aimed at him. And that had freeze-dried everything in him because, suddenly, he found himself caring very much about what Mila thought of him. “Do you want Otabek, Yuri?” The image before him - of Viktor tucked into a hospital bed, too _grey_ to be _Viktor_ , bandages blanketed around his neck, a slice on his cheek pulled together by three small white strips -  bobbed, and Yurio realised he must have been nodding. “Aw, don’t worry. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure. He’s just gone to get Yuuri back for you, remember?” 

Yurio couldn’t remember, but he nodded anyway. _Yuuri_. Yuuri should be there. Viktor was hurt, and he would have wanted Yuuri there, Yurio was sure, more than he would want Yurio to be there. It didn’t feel like jealousy; but then again, nothing felt like anything.

“Yura?” The voice was deep, gravelly, and a frown of confusion cut into Yurio’s face because it definitely wasn’t Mila or Georgi. It was old. Creaky. The worn spine of an antiquarian book. He tore his eyes from Viktor, just for half a heartbeat, and there he was, stood by the door. _Yakov_. He flicked his gaze to the clock and the hands had leapt. “You scared Mila and Georgi.” 

_Did I? Good._

“Talk to me.” 

It was an order, Yurio knew, but it hadn’t sounded like one. It had sounded softer. Chalky. It reminded him of a time before _Viktor,_ before _home_ , when he, aged maybe four or five, had trailed around after the elite team with stars in his eyes. Most of them had ignored him, pretending that the little bug buzzing around them wasn’t there at all; some had treated him with outright scorn, complaining to Yakov that the elite training hall wasn’t a fucking crèche; one or two, however, had taken a shine to him, letting little Yuri ride around on their shoulders, showing him how to grip this sword right or how to fire that crossbow. Yurio had overheard them once, the long-since shed skin of the elite team, talking. _Why do you put up with that little squirt acting like he’s your fucking shadow?_ And then, the reply; _because imagine how shit it would be to have Yakov for a father, poor kid needs some softness._ Which, in turn, had led to Yurio tugging at Yakov’s coat sleeve later that evening and mewing out _are you my papa?_ Yakov had said _no no of course I’m not you know I’m not don’t be a moron Yuri you’re a big boy aren’t you you know your parents are dead._ But he had said it softly. Like chalk. With his eyes shut. And then Yakov had left for patrol – because those had been the days when Yakov had still gone out on patrol duty every other night – and neither of them had ever mentioned it again. 

Yurio’s eyes felt too dry, so he blinked. Yakov wasn’t stood up anymore and _when did he sit down I didn’t see him do that._ He squeezed Viktor’s hand tighter, and felt vaguely guilty for finding comfort in it. It wasn’t his job to be comforted. 

Yakov held out a small blue box, and _oh,_ Yurio realised, _it’s orange juice._ The mouth of the straw was pointing at him like the barrel of a gun, accusing. _Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._  

“Drink this.” A pause. “That’s an order, boy. How are you supposed to protect the Chosen One if you’re like this?” 

Yurio took the carton and turned it to a crippled, crumpled carcass in one deep, reaching slurp. _Empty._

* * *

 

As soon as Otabek had left – _I need to get some nicotine patches –_ Yuuri had collapsed to the ground, crushed by his own weight. And, _of course_ , Phichit had been there to catch him – metaphorically speaking; in literal terms, he had sunk to the floor with his best friend because, sometimes, Phichit knew, Yuuri _needed_ to have a breakdown. _Some people,_ he could remember his mother saying, _need to be hurricanes before they can be rainbows; they collect all of their rain up and have to let it go all at once so you grab yourself an umbrella and help them through it._  

The truth of it was that Phichit was supremely surprised, a feeling he didn’t get to experience too often. He had known that _something_ was coming, a sign, a cue, an indication that the end was indeed nigh, but the stars – who were fickle at best, pretentious assholes at worst – had not disclosed to him what, precisely, that would be or when it would happen. But the burning in his gut told him that _this_ was it, and his mind travelled to the cabin in the woods, repainted, kitted out, a home-in-waiting. A base of operations.

Phichit shook the image from his head because now was no time for the future. 

Yuuri was hysterical. A shuddering, heaving heap on the floor; the two of them were there, in the hall, underneath a framed photograph of them both as children, smiling, little Yuuri half-hiding behind his best friend. Phichit looked up at it and nodded to himself. _I can make Yuuri strong_. But then _no_ , Phichit shook his head. _I can make Yuuri see how strong he is. It’s what I do._  

Collecting his thoughts, his arsenal of shared happy memories, stringing together sunlight, Phichit reached out for his friend’s shoulder. Only for Yuuri to flinch away in a burst of stuttered sobbing. The sound hurt, but it wasn’t unfamiliar – which, in turn, made it hurt all the more. Phichit hadn’t seen Yuuri break down like this in a long time. Not since before Viktor. Phichit tried again, but the crackle of ice reaching along the carpet and up the wall told him to stay away even before his best friend ducked backwards. 

“ _Yuuri_.” His voice was a bleed, a dilation. He didn’t sound like himself. 

“Don’t get close. Don’t. D-don’t, I.” Yuuri’s words matched his breathing; frenetic, waves heaving up onto a shingle beach. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“Hurt me?” Phichit blinked, a butterfly movement. Although everything in him ached to get closer to his friend, to parcel him up and hug him through it, Phichit knew when Yuuri didn’t want closeness, that it would achieve nothing but claustrophobia. If he hugged Yuuri it would have been for selfish reasons, and now was not the time for selfishness. So Phichit just stayed knelt there, arms at his sides, open. Welcome. Warm. “You won’t hurt me. You listen to me, Yuuri Katsuki. I know exactly what you’re capable of, better than anyone, and I know that you won’t hurt _me_. I’m a prophet. I know these things. Besides,” he melted into something playful, something young, “I know _way_ too many of your deepest, darkest secrets. If you tried anything, I’d unveil them to the world.”

Yuuri didn’t laugh, but when Phichit tried to shift closer again, Yuuri met him. And when Phichit reached out to his friend, the dragon thawed, collapsing all over again, a mini earthquake as Phichit knotted his arms around him. It struck Phichit that he didn’t even know the reason for Yuuri’s meltdown, but that was secondary – the only thing Phichit needed to know, right in that moment, was that Yuuri was in distress. That was enough. The rest could come later, when Yuuri felt comfortable telling him. There were times when Phichit wanted to know everything – chewed over every juicy globule of drama as though it were his last meal – but not when it came to the important things. Not when it came to the things that made his friends cry.

He petted a hand through Yuuri’s hair. It slicked back at the slightest touch, into an aerodynamic sheen but, as always with Yuuri, a few stray strands at the front rebelled; one of his quirks, like his ice, like his hoarding. If Phichit had tried to stroke, for example, Otabek’s hair back (a thought as amusing as it was disturbing) then it would have held perfectly. The same with Minami, or with any other dragon. But not with Yuuri. Because Yuuri was _special_ , and Phichit knew that, appreciated it, loved it more than anyone else in the world – including, Phichit thought, Viktor. 

“It’s okay, Yuuri,” Phichit murmured, and he savoured the honesty of the words because, he knew, a time was soon approaching when to utter them would be to lie to his best friend; when the words would turn to acrid dust on his lips. “I’m here. It’s okay. It’s alright. I’ve got you. I’m here, for as long as you need me.” That, at least, would never be a lie. He mapped his palms across Yuuri’s back in broad, sweeping arcs, a tide washing away patterns imprinted on sand. “You’re alright. You’re okay. Everything will be okay. I promise. And I don’t break promises, do I?” 

“H-how, how can you promise me it’s okay when you don’t even know what’s happened?” There was a wet waver to Yuuri’s voice, but then his face slackened, the brown of his eyes turning to a dusty smoke, a breath away from transparency. Coils of ice whispered around Phichit’s ankles and wrists, and it felt like Yuuri, on a mid-December night back when they’d both been nothing more than children, nothing more than two oddball outcasts banding together, tugging nervously on Phichit’s sleeve as he breathed out the words _can you tell me about the stars._ “ _Do_ you know? Did you know this would happen?” It didn’t sound like accusation, because Yuuri _knew_. But, at the same time, a stab of guilt rippled through Phichit. Not for the now, because he was quite honestly in the dark, but for what he knew was to come. “Did you know that I would hurt him?” 

_Oh. Oh Yuuri._

“No. I didn’t.” Phichit shut his eyes, because looking at Yuuri _hurt_ too much. “I swear to you, I didn’t. I knew something was coming, a sign, but I didn’t know it would be this.” His eyes shot open again because _holy shit Viktor’s hurt,_ even if he knew, logically, that the Chosen One couldn’t be dead. There were too many plans for him. He’d seen them. “Is Viktor okay?” 

“I. I don’t _know_.” The last word was a rip of a thing, and the shockwaves of it made Phichit hold Yuuri tighter, straying into the realms of clinging. “I just. I left. I had to. I had to run, get away, get out. It. Otabek, told me Viktor will be okay. He’s had, transfusions.” Phichit couldn’t help but wince – not so much for Viktor, who he knew would recover, but for Yuuri, who he wasn't sure would. “I just. I _left_ him.”

“Then let’s go and see him,” Phichit’s voice was a soft petal of a thing. “He’s at the Shield, yes?” Yuuri nodded. “We can go there, then. When Otabek comes back. We’ll go together, yeah? I’ll be right by your side.” 

The only response he got was a shake of the head, and it looked like Yuuri was trying to shake something out of it. Ice splintered along the floor and it looked like a sob. Phichit had never really thought it before, because he adored every aspect of Yuuri (including his flaws which, Phichit thought, were just another brushstroke in the picture and how can you love a picture without seeing, acknowledging, _loving_ every brushstroke?), but in that moment he wished he could make Yuuri _warm_. Just for a second. Just for a breath. Just to let him know. 

“I-I _hate_ this.” Phichit didn’t have to ask what _this_ was. Because they were teenagers again, and nobody could break his heart like his best friend could. “I hate it. I _hate_ it. I just. I’d just gotten used to, to being _human-_ ”

“You’re not human, Yuuri. You never have been. You never will be.” He shifted away from the dragon and gloved frostbitten hands with his own, thawing them. Yuuri didn’t look at him, _wouldn’t_ look at him, but then Phichit squeezed and he did. “You’re not a dragon either. I mean, you _are_ , but. Before you’re anything else, you’re Katsuki Yuuri. You’re my best friend. You’re the kid I ran around with, making snowmen in the middle of summer. You’re the _polite young man_ who always called my mom _ma’am,_ and before that, _Mrs Phichit’s Mom.”_ Yuuri let out a hiccup that was neither a laugh nor a sob but a strange, beautiful combination of the two. Phichit caught the sound with a smile. Something stung in the corners of his eyes. “You’re the boy who taught me how to whistle. You’re the teenager who helped me dye my hair – _God_ , do you remember? The stars should have told me that toxic green wouldn’t be my colour. But you still told me I looked good. You’ve always been a terrible liar. There’s so much _good_ in you.” 

Yuuri wasn’t smiling, and he was still crying, teardrops turning to splintered hailstones before they’d even made it halfway down his cheek, but Phichit could tell that he’d gotten through. Because Yuuri was making eye contact with him, and there were whispers of amethyst in his irises. Steady. Not quite calm, but almost. Phichit squeezed Yuuri’s hands. _Are you okay?_ Yuuri squeezed back, cautiously gentle but lasting as long as an ellipsis. _I will be._  

“You’re Yuuri, you’re my best friend,” Phichit’s smile bit back into his cheeks, “and you’re going to change the world.” 

Yuuri let go of his hands, and it felt like breathing again because _he’s okay._ Phichit watched as the older man wiped his eyes, as the thick vein of ice punching along the wall shrivelled and pulled in on itself until it was nothing. He waited for Yuuri to stand before getting to his feet. 

The doorbell rang, and they could tell, by the meteoric glow of the door handle that it was Otabek. Phichit stepped forwards, towards the door, but was stopped by Yuuri’s hand, the touch barely a shiver of a thing, wrapping around his wrist. 

“I know it’s against the rules,” and Yuuri’s voice was so quiet, so earnest, so _open_ that Phichit couldn’t help but think _fuck the rules_ , “but please, _please_. Phichit. Do I.” A deep breath. The pause before falling. “Do I kill him? Is that how this ends?” 

“No.” Phichit cleared his throat. “No, Yuuri. You don’t kill Viktor. Of _course_ you don’t. I _promise_. And I’ve never broken a promise to you, have I?”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri was alone. As soon as they had arrived at the hospital wing – on the third floor of the Shield – Otabek had bustled off, smoothing a nicotine patch over the sturdy bar of his wrist. Watching Otabek go, even knowing that the firebreather was the one person citywide who might stand a chance at stopping him, had felt fundamentally _good_ to Yuuri. _Yes go to him go to Yurio make him feel safe._ Because if he shut his eyes, breathed low, tuned into the right frequency, he could make out the stammer-stutter of Yurio’s heartbeat. His muscles ached to go to the slayer, to his young, but no, _no,_ he had to do this properly. By the rules. Which was why Phichit had gone to seek an audience with Yakov. 

He pulled through the sounds around him, changing frequencies until he found Viktor’s heartrate. Steady. Slow. Something warm-soft about it, even though it was just a sound. But it wasn’t _just_ a sound. It was a story, a promise, a gospel. Something for Yuuri to believe in. And so he clung to it because, if he hadn’t known any better, they could have been at home, Viktor sound asleep upstairs whilst Yuuri made a night-time excursion to the cutlery drawer. 

_He’s okay he really is okay thank God I just want to see him I want to hold him I want to be the strong one I want to be strong for him._  

Yuuri’s hand seeped into his pocket and there it was, forgotten, small as a kiss – a mother of pearl caviar spoon. He fitted the pad of his little finger into the bowl of it, and it was almost like holding hands. He shut his eyes and saw forget-me-not blue, glacial blue, the shade of blue that meant _love_ and _home_ and _pack_. 

_Yes_ , Yuuri thought, _everything will be alright._ Because Viktor was alive. Because Phichit had _promised_. Because, even if his humans hated him, were scared of him, didn’t want to be anywhere near him, Yuuri could at least keep watch from a distance, could at least pour every thread that flowed through him into keeping them stitched together. That was all he wanted; to keep his humans safe. What they thought of him was secondary. No. It wasn’t so much that, as _Yuuri_ being secondary in comparison to them. That, Yuuri thought, is what love means. 

The footfall of time was too loud. The waiting room was too white, and the clock was white too – a white so bright, so clinical as to bite. Yuuri zeroed in in the clock; it was a drift through three o’clock in the morning. _Yurio should be in bed asleep._ Which was a null thought, really, because Yurio had long since decided to save energy by not chasing after sleep, but still, Yuuri thought it. Because even if Yurio being sound asleep, dreaming of the kind of things teenagers were supposed to dream about, was not the norm, it _should_ have been. Briefly, Yuuri considered searching out a doctor and asking about sleeping pills but then, no, there was no way Yurio would have taken them. It wasn’t like Yuuri and Viktor hadn’t been trying to help the youngster – Yuuri had forayed into the science of herbal teas (which Yurio had told him tasted like utter shit), Viktor had bought brand new bedsheets (which Yurio had said were a _huge fucking waste of money, moron)_ , Yuuri had told Makkachin to sleep in Yurio’s room (which had only served to send Yurio into a silent spiral of guilt, after kicking her off of the bed whilst in the throes of a particularly turbulent nightmare), and Viktor had even taken it upon himself to camp out at the foot of Yurio’s bed ( _get out of my room you fucking weirdo I don’t need your help I don’t need anyone’s help I’m fucking fine_ ). But most of the few-and-far-between times when Yurio managed to sleep, it was via the method of passing out on the couch after being awake for too long, too drained to protest Viktor carrying him up to bed. Even if Yurio had been more accepting of their help, Yuuri mused, it probably wouldn’t have worked. It was deeper than that. Yuuri understood. 

Yuuri was so lost in thought, distracting himself with problems that weren’t the one he was currently faced with, that he didn’t hear Phichit approaching before he could see the prophet. And there Phichit was, smiling because that’s what he did. Yuuri wouldn’t have had him any other way. 

“You can see them now, Yuuri.” Phichit’s voice was soft, but his eyes were hard. Yakov was nowhere to be seen. “Do you want me to come with you?” 

Yuuri nodded because it wasn’t even a question. He needed Phichit there with him, always, at least as much as he needed Viktor. Before there had ever been anything, there had been Phichit. 

Walking to Viktor’s room – one hand cradling his spoon, the other gripping at Phichit’s fingers – felt more like drifting. Transient. In between. Everything in him turned to water because nothing was certain. He told himself that it didn’t matter if Viktor hated him because if Viktor was hating him then at least Viktor was _alive_. But it did. It _did_ matter because Yuuri loved Viktor with absolutely fucking everything, and he so desperately didn’t want to be out in the cold again. 

Otabek met them at the door to Viktor’s room, easing out and shutting it behind him. Yuuri strained, trying to catch a glimpse of his humans through the glass panels in the door, but Otabek made a point of standing in front of them. Yuuri blinked at him. Phichit’s smile took on a new dimension. 

“Please. _Please_ ,” and Yuuri had never heard Otabek Altin sound so young. It flashed in his mind that Otabek _was_ young – only two years older than Yurio, and far more alone. Twenty-four hours ago, Yuuri could never have imagined that he would be feeling _protective_ over Otabek Altin. And he wasn’t. Not exactly. “Don’t mess this up.” Otabek swallowed, and when he spoke again it was in bites of smoke. “I’ll be watching you.” 

And then, Otabek stepped aside. 

And then, Yuuri understood. Because, through the glass, he could see Yurio. Apart from, it didn’t _look_ like Yurio. It looked like the ghost of a reflection – faded and a few degrees off. Green eyes were dull but wide, hollow; there was none of that fiery spark that made Yuri  _Yurio_. Yuuri looked at him and he couldn’t see the kid who called people _moron_ or _asshole_ or used profanities as punctuation. He couldn’t see the man who could bring a dragon to its knees with one slice of an _urumi._ He couldn’t see the boy who turned to mush at the sight of a cat. In that moment, all he saw was a lost, sleepless soul.

_This is my fault I’ve done this._ A pause. _I need to fix it._  

Yuuri let go of Phichit’s hand. At his friend’s raised eyebrow and muted smile, Yuuri shook his head; he needed to do this alone. Besides, Yurio didn’t look like he could take being overcrowded at that moment in time. 

He slipped through the door, conscious to keep his speed down to human levels of slowness, and as the door _cunked_ shut behind him, Yurio flinched. Yuuri felt the jut of a movement shift in his ribcage. But Yurio didn’t look at him, and at first Yuuri thought it was a kind of punishment – but no. He followed the line of Yurio’s gaze and _oh._  

The hit of it was dizzying. Viktor wasn’t pale. That wasn’t the word for it. He was _colourless._ Yuuri half thought that if Viktor were to open his eyes, right there and then, they wouldn’t be blue. The older man’s neck was made thick with bandages, and Yuuri’s gums ached – not at the memory, because it was all lost in a mist, but at the knowledge that it was _his_ doing. He tuned back in to Viktor’s heartbeat and used it to ground himself. 

Yuuri took a step forward. He couldn’t help it. He had to be close to Viktor, had to touch him, had to know he was _real_. The second Yuuri got close, however, Yurio’s head snapped around to be facing him in a quick slice of a movement sharp enough to get cut on. Apart from, nothing about Yurio _was_ sharp. It was all sagging, empty, defeat, _please don’t._ It was sickening. 

_This has to be on his terms_ , Yuuri realised. Because it had been Yurio’s job to look after Viktor. Because, Yuuri knew, the vast majority of the nightmares that chased Yurio out of sleep were heliocentric to the image before him. Because, over this one thing, Yurio deserved to be in control. Yuuri understood that. Yuuri understood it because he felt it too. 

“Yurio?” Even though his voice was soft – if it had been any quieter it would have been nothing more than silence – it still felt too loud. Yurio seemed to agree with this assessment, because Yuuri saw his hands tighten around Viktor’s arm, white-knuckle tight. “It’s okay. I. I’m not going to hurt Vitya. I’m not going to hurt you. If.” Yuuri swallowed against the sting. “If you don’t want me here, that’s alright.” 

The only reply offered was the swipe of Yurio’s eyes as they settled back on Viktor, and Yuuri decided that it said enough. He wouldn’t cry. Not whilst he was in Viktor’s room. It would have been selfish. It wouldn’t have been fair. 

He nodded, a bereft almost-movement, and turned to leave. His throat was too narrow and his breath too blocky. His stomach had been pulled tight only to have all of its strings cut. Everything was too vacuous, viscous, void. 

But then, a hand knotted around Yuuri’s wrist. So tight and tense that it was trembling.

_Yurio_.

In an instant, Yuuri was facing his young again – because, no matter what, Yurio would _always_ be his young – and his first impression was _he’s going to punch me._ This inaccuracy, however, was quickly rectified by the fact that Yurio was on his feet, throwing his arms around Yuuri. It wasn’t a hug, in the same way that a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood isn’t hugging it, but Yuuri felt profoundly touched that Yurio had picked him out as buoyancy aid. 

Slowly, Yuuri folded his arms around Yurio. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do. Yuuri was far more used to being the comforted rather than the comfort _er_ , but Yurio needed him. So he shut his eyes, breathed in, breathed out, and let soft tendrils of frost wrap around Yurio’s wrists, a tidal movement, _in_ and _out, in_ and _out_. Yurio wasn’t panicking – but it wasn’t definite, it was a _yet_. 

Holding the slayer there, Yurio seemed younger than he had done when Yuuri had first met him. At seventeen Yurio was, of course, taller than his fifteen-year-old self, and he was sharper, too – but softer, in all of the ways that mattered, and Yuuri could feel it. He had watched Yurio grow, and now he was desperate not to watch him crumble. 

“I’m so fucking _sorry_.” The words were gunshots. 

“What? Yurio, no, no. Why are _you_ sorry?” Yuuri’s voice came out in a flurry, like blood from an open wound. _He can’t put this on himself how can he it wasn’t his fault he’s just a kid I hate the Shield for what they’ve done to him I hate it I hate it I hate it._ But, above all, Yuuri hated himself. _I did this._ “It wasn’t your fault. It _wasn’t_.” 

“It was. It _was._ ” A filtration of fire had returned to Yurio’s voice, but Yuuri didn’t welcome it. It was a torn thing. A razor blade. “It was my fault. I always promised, didn’t I? That I’d stop you, if you tried to hurt him but I didn’t. I didn’t stop you. I just. I froze. I fucking _froze_.”

Yuuri stepped back. Yurio made a wet noise at the loss of contact, and Yuuri cupped the teenager’s shoulders with his palms, keeping them connected because he couldn’t let Yurio be an island. He ran through his head, searching for the right thing to say, for what _Viktor_ would say. But no. He was not Viktor. Yurio wasn’t looking at _Viktor_ like the world was falling apart and there was nobody to blame but himself. No. Yuuri had called Yurio his _young_ often enough; it was time to put meaning into those words.

“Yuri. I need you to listen to me, okay?” Yuuri waited for the slayer to nod. “You are the _bravest_ person I’ve ever met. You’re just a kid,” and he knew how bad things were because Yurio did not protest this point, “but you do things no _adult_ should have to do, would be able to do. I. I don’t remember what happened. But I know that, when I. When I was me again, I knew it was because of _you_. You, with your bravery and your strength, you saved Viktor’s life.” 

Yurio tensed. He hiccuped. And then, he melted. Yuuri watched as the teenager shut his eyes, as tears whispered down his cheeks, as he shrugged Yuuri’s hands off of his shoulders. 

An apology was burning at the tip of Yuuri’s tongue. But something told him that now was not the time. Apologies are self-indulgent when unasked for, and, right now, the only thing that mattered was Yurio. Had Viktor been awake, Yuuri felt sure, he would have agreed. 

Yurio was, after all, their young. 

“Is it okay that I’m here?” Yuuri asked after a while. “If you don’t feel comfortable with me being here-” 

“ _Please don’t go_.” Something flashed in Yurio’s eyes, and it looked like a good kind of selfishness. Pink touched at Yurio’s cheeks, and Yuuri couldn’t help but smile. The teenager swallowed, dropped into something a little gruffer. “I mean, I. It. Viktor likes you, Jabberwocky. So I guess you can stay.” 

At the mention of his fiancé, Yuuri’s eyes flicked to Viktor and _yes_ , right there on Viktor’s finger was a thin slice of sky. They were, as they always would be, connected. 

Everything would be alright.

 

* * *

 

It had been far easier than had been anticipated to get Yuri to leave Viktor’s bedside. Otabek had fully expected to have to throw the waifish slayer over his shoulder and forcibly remove him. But no. It hadn’t been that hard. All it had taken was for Yuuri to murmur _you can rest now, Yurio, I’m here_ , and for Yakov to growl (albeit, growl _softly_ ) that Yuri needed to get some fresh air and rest his head on a pillow _and that’s an order, boy_. 

Yuuri had suggested that Phichit take Yurio home. Phichit, however, had shook his head and, with the sound reasoning that – as with most people – Yurio wasn’t exactly _warm_ towards him, proclaimed that Otabek would be a far more suitable candidate. And, to the surprise of all concerned, Yuuri had agreed. 

But Otabek hadn’t taken Yuri home. Because Yuri – whose hand had slipped into his like a whisper into an ear – had mumbled  _I want to see your cat._ Of course, Otabek was totally incapable of denying Yuri anything at that best of times, much less the first verbal request the human had aimed at him since the Ice Dragon had taken a bite out of the Chosen One. 

The above was how Otabek found himself in the grotty little hotel room he didn’t quite call _home,_ making a cup of tea for a dragon slayer. He had to smile. 

Currently, he was stood in the en suite, filling up the small, white kettle that came with the room. Otabek had to hold it at a strange angle because the sink was too shallow, and the task was taking _forever_ because the tap’s top speed seemed to be a sleepy drool. Waiting for the kettle to accumulate enough water for a decently sized cup of tea, he tuned into the murmur of noise of the main room. The ambient breath of silence was punctuated by what had become Otabek’s two favourite sounds. The first was the marbled, rumbling purr of Tsarina, the cat formerly known as Puss; she hadn’t even needed to be told to go to Yuri – in fact, she’d barely spared a glance for Otabek when he’d unlocked the door, instead going straight to weave herself indulgently around Yuri’s shins. The second sound was steady, bassy, the gentle sigh of clouds clearing on a midsummer evening – it was, in short, Yuri Plisetsky’s heartbeat. And it was calmer, sweeter than it had sounded in a while. Otabek reeled the sound in, coiled it up around the springs and gears of his mind, committing it to memory. Otabek Altin wasn’t a soft kind of boy, but, for Yuri Plisetsky, sometimes, he was. 

Drifting in a sea of barely-there sound, Otabek was jolted out of his reverie by a splurt of cold water flooding out of the kettle’s mouth. Cursing – under his breath because there was no point in worrying Yuri – he wheeled the tap quickly off, tipped some of the water out, kicked the bath mat over a small puddle that had sloshed from the basin. 

Satisfied that the kettle now held the correct amount of water, Otabek tunnelled his hands tightly around it. _Inhale. Exhale._ And then, he could feel the bouncing, bounding energy of the water as it bubbled. Perfect. 

Hands still wrapped around the boiling kettle, Otabek meandered back into the main area the hotel room. It was bare, impersonal – just a double bed with springs that had a bite to rival Yuuri’s, a chest-of-drawers (topped with a little box of teabags, sachets of coffee and sugar, biscuits that had come out of the factory stale), a television that only showed a rolling news channel and trashy pay-per-view movies  _when_ it decided to work – but even in its overwhelming blankness it somehow managed to be grotty. The window didn’t have curtains, but the thick layer of grime scratching at the glass scarcely let light in anyway. The carpet was balding, and Tsarina had made a game of making the sparse patches spread. Inexplicably, Otabek found himself feeling somewhat embarrassed by it. No. Not _embarrassed_ – _guilty_. He wanted to have somewhere nicer to bring Yuri back to. 

Just as he was about to open his mouth, to ask how Yuri took his tea, a pillowy, snuffle of a sound caught him. 

Because there Yuri was, sprawled at conflicting angles, a starburst atop the yellowed covers of Otabek’s bed. Tsarina was half-laying on Yuri’s chest, kneading her paws rhythmically against his t-shirt. In Yuri’s hand, his fingers wrapped around the handle in a loose daisy chain, was his _misericorde_. And he was sound asleep, his face pulled into an incline by the point of his nose, reaching for Otabek’s pillow. 

For a moment, all Otabek could do was stare. And, suddenly, that pock-mark of a hotel room in St Petersburg did indeed feel very much like _home_. 

But then, because nothing truly good can last for more than a perfect instant, Yuri’s face folded in on itself, crumpled, screwed up, and the noise. The _noise_ hurt in ways that Otabek had never really felt before meeting Yuri Plisetsky. It was wet and stretching, high, thready. It came from somewhere other than Yuri’s throat; it was metaphysical. But it was quiet, and that was what hurt the most. 

Otabek placed the kettle on the chest of drawers, the water in it now limp, and then padded to the bed. He wasn’t exactly sure of how to handle such a situation, but he went with his instincts and perched down next to Yuri. He shared a glance with Tsarina, who touched her nose to Yuri’s cheek. It looked like an indication and, because Tsarina usually knew best, Otabek did as he had been instructed. 

He cupped his hand carefully around Yuri’s jaw, his thumb rubbing an easy arc over the human’s cheekbone. Yuri’s face softened in his sleep and everything went silent; a _before_. Otabek held his breath, not knowing if he had done the right thing or if touching Yuri like this whilst the younger teen was asleep was crossing some kind of boundary. But then, Yuri nuzzled his face against Otabek’s palm, and everything about the blond went lax, open, trusting. _Resting_. 

Otabek didn’t move, scared of upsetting the balance, and Yuri didn’t stir again. 

Later, Mila would text asking how Yuri was, and Otabek would respond with a picture; of Yuri, of Tsarina, and of his hand. Mila, in turn, would text back with _you are so good for him._ Otabek wouldn’t reply, but he would think, with a smudge of a smile; _I know. And he’s good for me, too._

  

* * *

 

Everything was fuzzy, like that felt Viktor had played with as a child – the kind that comes in bright colours and primary shapes, and then you have to make pictures out of them. Yes. Everything was like that. Even his sense of smell was fuzzy, veiled, frothy. It was all pins and needles.

His body felt static. Apart from his left hand which, if Viktor focussed on it hard enough, felt _cold_. The cold, in turn, felt like home. And so he gave an instinctive squeeze which was really nothing more than a flex of his fingers, because he wanted to always be cold because cold meant Yuuri.

_Yuuri._ _I should tell him that I love him. It feels like it’s been a while._

Viktor blinked, and it was an effort to get his eyes back open – they were all claggy, his eyelashes doing their best to knit themselves together. When he _did_ manage to get them back open, it was only a crack, and even that was a monumental effort, like walking through setting concrete. 

The background was still more suggestion than certainty, but things had cleared up enough for Viktor to know that, sat at his side and gripping his hand, was Yuuri, his dragon, his fiancé, the Love of His Life. But he didn’t look right, Viktor thought; by which he meant that Yuuri didn’t look _happy_ , because that was all Viktor ever wanted for him. He couldn’t make out the exact colour of Yuuri’s eyes, but he could tell that they were something pale, washed out. 

He blinked again, and this time it was less of an effort. Punctuating Yuuri’s cheeks in wispy veins were two thin, wavering trails of icy frost. Viktor ached to sit up and reach out, to run his hands and lips over Yuuri’s cheeks until the only thing on them was a blush – but, seeing as _blinking_ was a bit of struggle for him at the moment, Viktor settled for scraping together a smile. He swallowed, deep, and realised just how _thirsty_ he was. The walls of his throat felt scraped clean. 

Viktor opened his mouth, shut it, swallowed again. When he spoke, it was like turning rusty cogs. 

“Am I dead? I must be dead, because you’re an angel.” It sounded all wrong – faded and cracking, a ghost of a sound – but Viktor’s smile spread, because Yuuri was _looking_ at him, colour flooding his eyes, a blush dilating in his cheeks. “ _Drakonchik_.” 

“ _Vitya.”_ Yuuri was frenetic. The dragon kept one hand clutching at Viktor’s, but the other hovered about Viktor, over his forehead, the round of his cheek, his neck, but never quite touching. It would have perhaps been the kind of attention that Viktor revelled in, apart from it wasn’t because Yuuri’s eyes were swollen river banks. Viktor directed all of his strength to his hand, and squeezed. Yuuri did not squeeze back. “I need to get the doctor. I need, to, get someone. It. I’m. God, I’m so _sorry_.” 

“Sorry?” Viktor blinked, a petal of a movement. “What are you sorry for?” 

“Don’t.” Yuuri had to pause, and Viktor could see the break in his face. “Don’t you remember what happened? I. It.” 

Viktor stopped to think for a moment, reaching through his memories to find the right one. The last thing he could remember was being in the practice hall. Something must have happened there. His forehead creased in on itself as he thought, working hard; he didn’t want to make Yuuri spell it out because that would have been some shade of cruelty. 

A slice of a sting came back to him. _I got cut. We were using our_ shashkas _and I got cut_. But that couldn’t be it, surely. The fingers of his free hand twitched, and then the muscles of his arm spasmed. It took a cluster of moments for Viktor to work out how to get the two parts of his limb to function as one, and then his fingers were at the tight stuffiness of his neck, feeling a thick, spongy wad of bandages. The slightest pressure on it was dizzying, and the crimson curl of _ouch shit that hurts_ was overridden by the overwhelming of _oh_. Because, suddenly, Viktor _could_ remember. 

Looking at Yuuri, Viktor knew what he was thinking because he _knew_ Yuuri. The room was frostbitten, the window clogged with a map of ice, and although Viktor loved being cold because he _loved_ Yuuri, he wished it wasn’t. This was a bad kind of cold. 

“It wasn’t your fault, _Drakonchik._ ” Viktor sounded more like himself this time, sturdy, but his voice was an ache. Yuuri shook his head, but when Viktor squeezed his hand, Yuuri squeezed back tight enough to make his bones groan. “Yuuri, it wasn’t. I don’t blame you. It was an accident. Everyone makes mistakes. I.” Viktor swallowed. “I don’t care. I really don’t. I. I still love you. I love you more than anything, you know that.” He held up his hand and, thus, by extension, Yuuri’s. “That’s what our rings mean, isn’t it? We’re forever.” 

Yuuri wouldn’t stop shaking his head. The action wasn’t violet – it was a soft-sharp sway more than a shake, like the pendulum of an old grandfather clock – but it was, by virtue of its multiplicity. To Viktor, it was cutting. Because he didn’t _understand._ He was the one who had been hurt, so surely it was _his_ right to say if he minded or not. 

“This, this isn’t _okay,_ Viktor.” Yuuri dragged a hand over his face. “I could have _killed_ you.” 

“Well,” Viktor shrugged, and the action made his muscles ache, “what’s an adventure without a bit of danger?” 

“This isn’t an _adventure_.” Yuuri didn’t sound angry, not exactly, but his tone was such a whiplash that it knocked the smile from Viktor’s face. “This isn’t a game, Viktor. It. I. You nearly _died_. I’m a monster, Viktor, and I’m not saying that to make you pity me. I’m saying it because it’s _true_. I’m a monster. I _am_.” 

“And I love you because of it. Not in _spite_ of it, Yuuri. You know that, don’t you?” Viktor’s voice was low, and it was hard work to keep the heartbreak out of it because he had worked so _hard_ to get Yuuri to love himself. When Yuuri didn’t nod, it felt like defeat. “Well, I do.” 

“You _can’t_.” 

“Yeah, in the same way that you can’t fly.” Viktor paused, because they were teetering dangerously on the edge of an argument. He sighed, trying to direct all of his tension into the sound, and he could _feel_ Yuuri’s eyes on him, worried. Just one look, one shared gaze, electricity meeting waves, was all Viktor needed for his frustration to drain away. _I want to make Yuuri smile._ “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

“Then what does anything else matter?” The crack in Viktor’s voice had nothing to do with tiredness or disuse. 

Evidently, this was the wrong thing to say. Because Yuuri dropped Viktor’s hand, got to his feet, and started pacing, a tide of ice breaking in his wake. This, Viktor felt, was supremely unfair; all he wanted, on the most primal and all-encompassing of levels, was to be next to Yuuri, and given that he wasn’t much up to moving, how was he supposed to rectify the sudden distance between them? 

“I could have _killed_ you.” 

“So you keep saying!” Viktor’s voice wasn’t a shout. Not really. But it was, in all of the ways that mattered, and it bulleted Yuuri to a stop, his eyes lunar-wide. He was listening, though, and for Viktor, that was enough. _Anger_ , Viktor realised, the idea hitting him between the eyes, _he wants me to be angry. Well,_ a smile spread along his lips, _I can give him one better._ “I forgive you.” 

Like a magic spell, Yuuri was at his side again. Not sat on a chair, but on his knees, clasping at Viktor’s hand, face down. It hurt, to see someone he loved so deeply hurting so truly, but at least it looked like openness and felt like closeness. 

Viktor heaved himself up to be sitting, the movement tectonic, and Yuuri was suddenly on his feet, the snowflakes of his fingertips pressing earnestly at Viktor’s shoulders. Having Yuuri’s hands on him almost felt like having wings. His dragon fussed about him, helping Viktor into a better sitting position, propping up his pillows, and Viktor let himself enjoy it. He smiled at his fiancé, but it felt weighted with the beckoning drag of sleep; he had the feeling he’d been asleep for a while, but it had been the kind of sleep that doesn’t offer rest. 

“I need to get the doctor,” Yuuri mumbled. “I was supposed to get him as soon as you woke up.” 

“Give me a kiss before you go?” Viktor batted his eyelashes, pouted his lips – only for the look to wash away at the open, carved ache of Yuuri’s face. “ _Drakonchik_? What’s wrong? You don’t have to kiss me if you don’t want to.” 

“I _do_. I do want to.” Red crept up Yuuri’s cheeks. “But. I. What if I lose control again? What if I hurt you?” 

“You won’t.” But that wasn’t enough, and Viktor knew it wasn’t enough because of the way Yuuri was looking at him. Because Yuuri _was_ dangerous, and Viktor could let himself admit it. Acknowledging it, this extra piece of the puzzle that made up Yuuri, didn’t mean that he loved his fiancé any less. And, feeling very much like one of the living dead, propped up in a glaringly white hospital bed, Viktor could let himself think it. He wet his lips, but it didn’t really work. “Teach me.” Viktor cut the sentence off intentionally early, for the express purpose of receiving the confused-puppy tilt of Yuuri’s head. “Teach me how to recognise the signs, so I know when you might, y’know, go all Nosferatu on me. Tell me how I can help you control it. I want to help you. I always want to be able to hold your hand.” 

Viktor held out his hand, and Yuuri took it immediately, no questions asked. Their fingers squeezed together, knotted, and something flowed between them. Freckles of frost kissed Viktor’s skin. 

“Okay.” Yuuri had to clear his throat, but in a good way. “I will. I’ll teach you, I’ll tell you everything.” The dragon leant over him, and Viktor went cross-eyed watching as Yuuri kissed his forehead. It felt like being crowned with a halo. “But not right now. You need to rest.” 

Viktor let himself nod because, yes, the idea of resting felt _very_ good right about then. So he shut his eyes. And then he pinged them open again, a crush of guilt squeezing him because _I should have noticed sooner._  

“Where’s Yurio?” 

“With Otabek.” Yuuri’s face had gone soft, and it was something beautiful. “He’s sleeping. Otabek sent Mila a picture. He looks… content.” 

“I want to see this picture.” Viktor demanded, bumped a fist down against his leg. “I want it printed and framed.” He blinked. “Hang on a minute. Since when are _you_ on Team Otabek?” 

Yuuri shrugged. But, following his dragon’s gaze down to their own joined hands, Viktor found that he knew the answer. _Everyone deserves to have an adventure._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. This chapter is all about non-romantic love (although there is plenty of that in there too!) because I wanted to show how important the other kinds of love are, which is why Viktor doesn't wake up until the last section; Yuuri needed Otabek's friendship (sort of??), Phichit's brotherly love, and Yurio's familial love before he could face up to/come to terms with what he'd done and thus accept Viktor's romantic love again. Also, I wanted to show the familial love going on between Yurio and the Shield, because it is there, in its own strange, warped way.
> 
> 2\. When Yuuri's knelt at the stream, and he's physically forcing his teeth and his wings away, I wanted that to show that he's gone back to hating what he is. Viktor had kind of helped him get past that - with the flying, with the general magic of Date Nights - but given that he took a literal bite out of Viktor, that good work has gone down the drain; it was Viktor who made Yuuri love himself, and now it's Viktor (albeit not through any fault of his own) who's made Yuuri hate himself again. 
> 
> 3\. Why is it Otabek who goes after Yuuri? Firstly, for logistical reasons. The forest is pretty far away from St Petersburg, so Otabek was the only one of the team to be able to reach Yuuri in a decent amount of time (he knew where Yuuri would be a) because he could track him and b) because the forest was his first guess). Secondly, because he's the only one of the team who'd be able to put up a fight if Yuuri went dark again (apart from Yurio, who wasn't really with it enough to go trekking after his dragon dad). Thirdly, because he knows how much Yuuri means to Yurio, and Otabek would do pretty much anything to make Yurio happy at this point. Fourthly, because it suited my purposes for it to be Otabek - there needed to come a point of understanding between the two dragons for the sake of the Dream Team.
> 
> 4\. Even though Yuuri was okay when he left the forest, he broke down again in front of Phichit because he trusts him. He knows that Phichit will be there to catch him if he falls - in short, he has a breakdown with Phichit because he knows he can. Because he trusts Phichit. 
> 
> 5\. A few chapters back, when Yuuri was showing Viktor different constellations - he was teaching Viktor what Phichit had taught him as a child. More than showing his boyfriend something cool/pretty, he was passing on something precious.
> 
> 6\. Yurio's apology to Yuuri is the first time he's spoken since the incident. I wanted it to be Yuuri to show how much Yuuri _does_ mean to Yurio. Despite what happened last chapter, he still sees Yuuri as family, still needs his support and love. He understands that it was an accident - and even if he didn't, Yurio would still think of the whole thing as being his fault; he sees his omission as being as bad, if not worse, than Yuuri's act. He's opened his gates to Yuuri, and that's not something he can undo. Yuuri understands him in ways that Viktor doesn't, and he needs that.
> 
> 7\. When Otabek looks at Yurio asleep on his bed, and thinks 'home', it's because all he wants out of life is on that bed. First of all, there's his cat, Tsarina - she needs no explanation. Then there's Yurio's misericorde, which represents Otabek's need for travel/adventure/conflict - because he does enjoy fighting, be it as a hunter, vengeful hitman, or a slayer; it's what he's built for, what he's good at, and he loves it. Finally, there's also Yurio who, by this point, Otabek is very much in love with (I think so, anyway) - he represents, obviously, love, but also the green-eyed, blonde-haired girl that Otabek couldn't save. 
> 
> 8\. The first thing Viktor says to Yuuri is a really bad chat-up line. He says it because he doesn't really care that he's hurt and in hospital in comparison to the fact that something is clearly wrong with Yuuri. His first thought when waking up is to make Yuuri feel good - and I think that says a lot.
> 
> 9\. Viktor's forgiveness gets through to Yuuri because it's not an 'I don't care' - it's an acknowledgement of what happened, of the fact that Yuuri _is_ dangerous. It's exactly what Yuuri needed to hear. This also marks a turning point for Viktor, in that he isn't just brushing Yuuri's darker nature under the carpet. It's acceptance. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter will be a fluffy one, featuring: the boys move to Phichit's cabin, Viktor has his head in the clouds, Otabek compliments Yurio, Phichit has a (wo)man on the inside, Yuuri is domestic, and Yurio is his prickly self.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr!](http://unicornsandbandsandstuff.tumblr.com/)


	13. Home is Where the Pack Is

 

 

Yurio couldn’t believe it. No. No, that statement wasn’t _quite_ accurate. He couldn’t _fucking_ believe it. There. That was more like it. 

Their house in St Petersburg hadn’t been anything special, but at least it had actually _been_ a house. Unlike this. Phichit had called it a _cabin_ – which, maybe hadn’t sounded so bad; Yurio had pictured something big and Alpine, clean, airy-cosy, the kind of place where too-rich mummy’s boys go on holiday with the lads – but no, this was, as far as Yurio was concerned, a glorified shed. And that was putting it nicely. 

It smelt musty, like that stupid junk shop Viktor and the Jabberwocky were so fond of, and everything about it crawled with damp. It was the kind of place that was always on the outside. The kind of place that was a pitstop more than a _home._ Besides, Yurio had _liked_ their old house. It was the first real home he could ever remember having – the walls were hugs, the ceilings were skies, every dent and nook and stain threading together to tell a story – not that Yuri Plisetsky was the sort to get sentimental about such things. About _anything_. 

As he stood in the stretch of the main room – a living room with a kitchenette, everything either in bare wood or painted in gaudy shades of sunshine, sunrise or sunset – Yurio kept one eye on Viktor. It had been a week since The Accident had happened, and every time Yurio shut his eyes, all he could see was red and grey; all he could hear was the hollow _thud_ of Viktor hitting the concrete of the training hall – which, he supposed, was marginally better than _yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._ It felt like a weakness, the way he could still _hearitfeelitseeittasteit_ , but Yuuri seemed to understand. Maybe, Yurio thought, because the dragon felt it too. Otabek didn’t understand it so well, but he _wanted_ to, and that was enough. The fact that he _didn’t_ was what made it so easy for Yurio to be around the firebreather. 

Phichit was grinning at them – Yurio and Viktor – hands pressed together in a static clap. Yuuri and Otabek, having dropped their humans off, had returned to the city to collect their basic belongings. Or, in Yuuri’s case, spoons. 

“So?” The curve of Phichit’s smile, of his smug satisfaction, was audible. It only served to chisel Yurio’s scowl deeper into his cheeks. “What do we think?”

“It’s a shit heap. One that’s been vomited on by a fucking rainbow.” 

“ _Yurio.”_ The slice of Viktor’s glare felt good. _He’s okay he’s there he’s really okay._ “It’s great, Phichit.” 

“I still don’t see why we even have to be here.” Yurio fished his phone out – definitely _not_ with the intention of checking to see if Otabek had sent him any texts, if Otabek was okay. Of course not. And even if he had been, it wouldn’t have mattered because; “there’s no signal. Nothing. Oh my God. This is fucking ridiculous.” If it hadn’t been for his apparent inability to look away from Viktor for any prolonged stretch of time, Yurio would have turned around. “I’m going home.” 

“We’re here,” Phichit began, and _why doesn’t he ever fucking stop smiling,_ “because the stars declared it should be so.” 

“Yeah, well, _the stars_ can go fuck themselves.” He pocketed his phone, and the act had something of rebellion about it. Or, he hoped it did. “They’re not the ones living in this _Little House on the Prairie_ nightmare.” 

“Okay, then. We’re here because, when it comes to it, the battle will be bloody.” And still, Phichit was smiling. But it was a cut of a smile, hard, and in that moment Yurio could imagine, perhaps, in the right light, finding Phichit Chulanont scary. “So we need to be as far away from built-up areas as possible. What’s the point in fighting to save innocent lives if doing so costs them?” 

Yurio’s scowl took on a whole new dimension because, really, how was he supposed to argue with that? Tsarina – who travelled surprisingly well at dragon-speed – weaved tightly between his legs, pressing her face against his shin as though saying _you’re right, Yuri, we’re both far too good for this place._ In his mind, Tsarina spoke in plumes of cursive smoke. Aristocratic.  

He watched, his eyes zeroing in, as Viktor made his way to the sofa. There was a thick wad of gauze pressed to Viktor’s neck, just under the left side of his jaw, fastened there with a patchwork border of medical tape, and there was a nick high up on his cheek, faded into a shadowy kind of red – landmarks on a map. Monuments. Yurio hated them, because whenever he looked at Viktor those were the first things he saw.  

It was, perhaps, somewhat generous to call the sofa a _sofa_ because, really, it was a rigid wooden bench that Phichit had towered high with blankets and cushions. Viktor sat down, frowned, wriggled around a little bit, and his frown bloomed into a pout. _So it is as uncomfortable as it looks_. There were also two armchairs, both of which Yurio recognised from Phichit’s living room. Instead of facing a television – of which there was _none_ – they were huddled around a fireplace. 

“We’re going to freeze in here,” Yurio pointed out, a smirk jutting to his lips because _yes I want to register my discontent if I have to suffer they all do._ “There’s no heating, is there? Other than that fireplace. And Yuuri’s an _ice_ dragon. We’ll all catch hypothermia and die long before the enemy can get to us.” 

“We’ll be fine, Yurochka,” Viktor piped up, grinning merrily over at him, and Yurio could tell, he could just fucking tell from the look on the old man’s face that Viktor’s next words were going to test him. “Your boyfriend will keep us warm.” 

“Otabek is _not_ my boyfriend.” Yurio’s words were spitfires, enough to match the blush he could feel clawing its traitorous way up his cheeks. And then, the nerve of it, Viktor raised his stupid fucking _grey_ eyebrows. “He fucking _isn’t_.” 

“He kind of is,” Phichit peeped up. Yurio reached his hand into his pocket, knotting his fingers around the handle of his _misericorde_. “What? He _is_. Kind of.” 

“ _Very_ kind of.” Viktor nodded sagely, sharing a look like sparks with Phichit. “You hold hands. I’ve seen you. And I mean, _come on_ , your sparring is _far_ from platonic. The way you _look_ at each other. It’s cute. Don’t be scared of love, Yurio, it’s a wonderful-” 

“Shut your douche bag mouth before I put my fist in it, old man.”

Neither Viktor or Phichit said anything more on the matter, but they were both giving him these sickening smiles and that was just as bad but no, no, Yurio couldn’t smack them one just for _smiling_. So he dropped down into a crouch, in favour of rambling his hands through Tsarina’s fur. 

Otabek _wasn’t_ his boyfriend. Sure, they held hands but so what? So what if being hugged by Otabek felt like a variation of home? So what if he could actually _sleep_ and _rest_ when Otabek was next to him? _It doesn’t mean anything_. And, instantly, Yurio felt guilty for thinking it. Because, really, Otabek meant _everything_. He knew that. He was fairly sure Otabek knew it too, because it was there; in the way they fought side-by-side, teasing the prey that would be the hunter; in the way they were carefully reckless with one another when they sparred; in the way they only laughed or blushed or _really_ smiled when they were together; in the way their hands just slotted together like gravity and _holy shit._  

_He’s not my boyfriend_. _He’s a dragon_. Those thoughts went up in smoke, however, at the muscle-memory of Otabek holding him there, telling him things were okay in that Shield hospital room. Yurio had never really felt _safe_ in all his life, because even with Viktor he had been the first line of defence; even when they’d been watching movies together, movies that Yurio had long since pretended to have grown out of, Yurio had kept a fragment of his attention on the _what if_. But with Otabek, he did feel safe. Because Otabek was strong and powerful and he just _knew_. With Otabek, Yurio could let himself rest and be safe. And that was all he needed. He didn’t _need_ for it to have a name. Just the night before, he’d been in Otabek’s little hotel room, sleeping, when everything had gone red and grey and it had felt like his rib cage was crushing in on him, smothering, suffocating, and then – _and then_ , Otabek had been there, and everything had still been frightening, Yurio still hadn’t been able to breathe quite right, but everything had been _okay_. Yurio hadn’t gone back to sleep afterwards. Neither had Otabek. 

He could feel eyes on him, sticking like ants on sugar, and Yurio was suddenly aware of the fact that his own eyes had gone dry-tight, like before crying; the heat before a thunderstorm. He wasn’t sure why, just that it had been happening a lot since The Accident. He blinked and sprung up to his feet because _I’m okay I’m fucking okay I’m not a baby don’t look at me like that._

Viktor and Phichit were still smiling at him, but it was in muted pastels, and it felt like being lied to. So, mustering all of the dark vacuity from his insides, Yurio darted them both with a glare. 

“Good.” Phichit nodded, once, primly, as crisp as a bell. “Do you want to see the bedrooms?” 

“Not really,” Yurio grumbled, but Viktor shot him a _look_ and so he nodded. 

The first room was, in short, utterly ridiculous. Because the first, and only thing, Yurio saw of it was a mattress. And that’s all there was. There was a breath of a space between the door and the start of the bed, but after that there was no space whatsoever. The bed wasn’t even that big – just big enough for two people who were comfortable with merging into one. Despite himself, Yurio couldn’t help but be impressed that Phichit had managed the, not inconsiderable, feat of getting such a bed into such a room. A miracle, surely, if there ever was one. Next he’d be calling himself Saint Phichit. 

The second room was smaller than the first, but Phichit had somehow managed to squeeze two single, metal-framed beds in there, a strip of wooden floor left clear between the two, perpendicular to the door. The bed on the left was wrapped in leopard-print blankets and pillows. 

“This, of course, is yours and Otabek’s room,” Phichit explained, leaning against the doorframe. “What do you think?” 

“I think that it’s totally unfair,” Yurio growled, and it felt like a bit of an effort, “that we get the small room.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor felt like a burrito. This was thanks, in whole, to Yuuri parcelling him up in a tight cocoon of blankets. Makkachin was draped over his legs, and the warmth would perhaps have been stifling if it hadn’t been for the handprints of frost kissed to the window. It was cold, which meant that Yuuri was close. Yuuri was close, which meant that it was cold.   

Viktor also felt very, _very_ tired. Like everything had been sapped out of him, all his energy exhaled away in return for the inhalation of lead. If he shut his eyes, he could hear Yuuri saying goodnight to Yurio and Otabek, which was manifesting itself as _remember I can hear everything_ and then Yurio growling out _yeah well then hear me when I call you a fucking moron, loser,_ punctuated by the giddy giggles of Phichit, who had claimed the sofa as a bed _._ And Viktor was smiling because, yes, the cabin was feeling like home already. 

_Home isn’t a place,_ Viktor thought, _it’s the people in it_. It just so happened that his home consisted of a teenage dragon slayer, a nicotine-dependent firebreather, a somewhat omniscient ray of sunshine, a matriarchal poodle, a snobby cat, the most beautiful man Viktor had ever had the good fortune to look upon (who just so happened to be an ice dragon and _how fucking cool is that how is this my life oh my god)_ , and, of course, Viktor himself, the Chosen One. An odd selection? Perhaps. Dysfunctional? Maybe. But they were a pack, and they belonged together. Always. 

Viktor couldn’t stop smiling, not that he tried to. 

The door creaked open in a hushed whisper, and a murmur of frost tiptoed over Viktor’s nose. He tried to roll over, to be properly facing Yuuri, but incarcerated as he was by blankets, the best he could manage was turning his head to the side. His smile took on a new definition, warm, the sigh before the _happily ever after_. Because, having only been discharged that very morning, this would be the first night he and Yuuri had shared a bed in over a week. Viktor wasn’t sure how he’d managed to go without. His muscles ached with it. 

“You’re still awake,” Yuuri murmured, and it was almost a question. “I thought you were tired. You need to rest, Vitya. You know the doctor said you’re still healing.” 

As he spoke, Yuuri was shimmying out of his trousers, peeling off his t-shirt, getting changed in favour of baggy tracksuit bottoms. Viktor wished, not for the first time, that he could see in the dark as well as his fiancé could. 

“But _Drakonchik,_ ” Viktor whined the pet name, his lips smooched outwards into a pout, “how am I supposed to sleep without a kiss goodnight?”

Viktor didn’t have to be able to see in the dark to know that the Love of His Life was blushing. He kept his lips puckered out in a pout until Yuuri collected it – but it was too brief, too chaste, _not enough I need more._ A whimper that sounded like a frayed piece of unravelled string leaked from Viktor’s throat. Because this had become the norm. Because, Viktor knew, Yuuri was still beating himself up over what had come to be called The Accident. But it was just that, an _accident,_ and although Viktor _knew_ Yuuri, knew that of _course_ his dragon would feel guilty about it, he wished so desperately that he wouldn’t. 

The mattress inhaled as Yuuri laid down next to Viktor, no covers of his own. Viktor could feel him, even though they weren’t touching. And it hurt, more than a little bit. He tried to wriggle an arm free of his tightly-knit nest, wanting to hold Yuuri’s hand, to trace a fingertip over his jaw, _anything_ , but it was no use. 

“Are you cold?” Yuuri’s voice was wide-eyed worry, and Viktor felt a bleed of affection flood his lungs. “Do you need more blankets? Otabek doesn’t need any, I can get his for you. They’ll be warm.” 

“No, no. I.” Viktor swallowed. “I have plenty of blankets.” 

It hurt because it was awkward, and nothing between them was ever supposed to be awkward. Not like this. Not in ways that _hurt_. 

There was pinprick chill as Yuuri exhaled, long and deep, and an edge of excitement sliced through Viktor because _this means magic._ The dragon flicked his fingers out in starbursts, and from each fingertip flew a tiny shatter of ice. The fragments formed a constellation and hung there, suspended, held in place by something that nobody understood. They glowed, bioluminescent, casting everything in a glacial blue light. 

Normally, it would have been the kind of thing that Viktor wouldn’t have been able to pry his eyes from – but this was _not_ normal. Not even by their standards. The only reason he appreciated the stars that weren’t stars was because they illuminated Yuuri. He was all creases and wandering, lost. His eyes were too pale, no purple in them and scarcely any brown. Viktor never wanted his dragon to look like that, but he was, and he had been, more and more, since The Accident. 

Yuuri was looking back at him, unblinking. Frozen.

And then, _I’ve got it!_  

“Teach me,” Viktor murmured. He managed to work a hand free, and used it to prop himself up. Immediately, Yuuri was on him, easing him carefully into a sitting position, and it gave Viktor the opportunity to chase blushes around the younger man’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I mean it, Yuuri. Teach me.” 

“P-pardon?” 

“Teach me the signs.” 

“Oh.” Yuuri blinked. He folded up onto his knees, to be eye-height with Viktor, and everything in Viktor told him to kiss the dragon, that everything can be solved with the right kind of fairytale kiss, but no. No. This was important to Yuuri; it was what Yuuri _needed_ , and Viktor would die before he would deny his fiancé something he needed. “Right now?” 

“Right now. You’re worrying.” 

“No, I’m not.” 

“And now you’re lying.” 

They caught each other’s smiles, small though they were. Viktor, who was all hands at the best of times, smudged the corner of Yuuri’s lopsided suggestion of a smile with his thumb. The cold of it felt like a static shock. 

“So teach me.” Viktor’s voice was low, serious-soft. Yuuri opened his mouth, and because Viktor just _knew_ , he shook his head. “I need to rest, I know. Just give me a taster session. Your number one tip.” 

A pause stretched out and, to Viktor, it felt like teetering on a tightrope wire. Because he so desperately, so achingly, so deeply, wanted _his_ Yuuri back. He wanted to be kissed without abandon, to be hugged and held and for nothing else to matter. He wanted to be able to look at Yuuri without being able to hear his heart break – which, maybe, sounded a bit dramatic, but for all of his sensationalism was sincere. 

He reached to take Yuuri’s hand, and frost kissed his fingertips – a precursor to reciprocation. Their fingers knitted together, love-soft. Viktor squeezed, and Yuuri squeezed back. 

“Each time is different,” Yuuri started, and there was something claggy about his voice. Viktor traced a thumb over the mountain range of Yuuri’s knuckles. “Sometimes, when my eyes go black, I am still in full control. I can even _make_ it happen, as a sort of, show-of-dominance thing.” Yuuri shut his eyes, and Viktor watched as tiny bleeds of ice weaved between his eyelashes. “But sometimes, it’s like being possessed. If.” A pause. Viktor squeezed Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri cleared his throat. “If I’m still there, and there’s no other option, talk to me. Shout. Be angry. Strict. If it’s about dominance, assert yours. If it’s about hunger, tell me _no_. If I’m there, in any kind of way, I’ll listen.” 

“And that works?” 

“It’s saved the lives of many hamsters.” And Yuuri sounded so serious saying it, so solemn, that Viktor couldn’t but let out a snort of laughter. Yuuri’s eyes popped open – now a solid, sturdy wooden colour – and he did that adorable puppy-dog head tilt that made Viktor melt every time. “What?” 

Viktor shook his head, because the _what_ wasn’t quantifiable. It was just _Yuuri_ , but he didn’t think that Yuuri would understand having his own name squealed at him in response. So Viktor swallowed his giggles, buttoned his lips and nodded because, really, what Yuuri had been saying _was_ important. As with all of the things his fiancé said, from his opinion on a particular t-shirt to tips on avoiding a too-literal love bite, Viktor committed it to memory. 

There was a ruffle-rumble as Makkachin shuffled at the end of the bed, stretching out her front paws to be hooked over Yuuri’s ankles, forming a bridge of fluffy warmth between her two masters. _Good girl, Makka_. 

A yawn stretched itself out of Viktor’s mouth, his nose scrunching up to make room for it. That was all it took for Yuuri to be leaning worriedly over him, trying to ease Viktor back down. And Viktor, who was in the mood for self-indulgence, let him. Viktor was by no means too proud to acknowledge the fact that he liked being fussed over. 

“ _Drakonchik?”_ His smile was in his voice, in his eyes, tickling at his cheeks. “Actually, I’m really kind of cold.” 

“Do you want me to sleep outside? I can sleep outside. Here, I’ll get you Otabek’s blankets before I go-” 

But before Yuuri could even turn away from him, Viktor wound his freed arm tightly around Yuuri’s waist, reeling him. The dragon let out a circular kind of squeak, less than an _oh_ , and his cheeks burned into something rosy; _yes,_ Viktor thought, _this is exactly the kind of warmth I need._  

Viktor loosened his hold, just enough to let Yuuri shift away should the dragon so wish. But Yuuri didn’t shift away. No, instead he sort of melted against Viktor, his nose pressing a comma against the human’s chest; a thrill of ice twined sweetly around Viktor’s heart, playing out a lullaby sound. Viktor’s hand wandered through Yuuri’s hair, just feeling, just _being together_. He could feel a slice of a hitch to Yuuri’s breathing, and he corked it with a kiss to the forehead. 

All was still, calm, quiet, content. _Home_. 

“There,” Viktor murmured, his voice a Van Gogh swirl, “that’s better.”

  

* * *

 

Oddly, it had been Yurio’s idea. No, not quite his idea – but, more accurately, his insistence. Something about _needing some fucking space from the two of your fawning over each other._ Viktor, of course, had seized on the idea and thus there Yuuri was, laid on a bed of grass that crunched with every slight movement because the dew glazing each blade had turned into something like glass. Viktor’s arm was under his head, making for an altogether uncomfortable pillow yet one that Yuuri didn’t think he’d ever want to move from. 

He framed a patch of sky with his hands, inhaled, exhaled and _yes_ , there were six freckles of ice overlaying the stars, twinkling as the stars twinkled, revealing a poem as the stars dictated it. 

“What’s it called?” The purr of Viktor’s voice tickled the shell of Yuuri’s ear, and he could taste the beer on his human, cooled by Yuuri's own fair hands. “Does it have a story?”

Yuuri squinted, more of a metaphorical act than a physical one, reaching through his mind for the strands that tied the constellation together. It was their first Date Night since The Accident, and Yuuri so desperately wanted to make it special for Viktor, to make the Chosen One see that he had chosen the right one. Nerves tore at him like teeth at lips. 

Viktor rubbed his cheek against Yuuri’s hair, and it felt like an explosion of angel feathers. 

The specks of ice breathed outwards, a line of frost drifting between them and forming a road in a hooky sort of shape. Yuuri licked his lips as he thought. He shut his eyes, and when he opened them again the frost had dilated into a watercolour depiction of a gnarled, formerly gilded clock, its pendulum swaying with the breeze, its numbers a foggy blur. Viktor’s soft gasp sounded like starfall. 

“That’s Horologium,” Yuuri mumbled, the syllables sticking to his lips. “The pendulum clock.” 

“There’s no story?” The edge of a pout pulled at Viktor’s face. To Yuuri, shaking his head felt like a crime. But a smile sprung to Viktor’s lips, his eyes full of starlight; Yuuri was unobserved in his observation. He seeped in the exact blue of Viktor’s eyes, their fluidity, the light and life and colour. _He’s my green-eyed girl._ “H. Hor-gol-ium?” 

“Horologium.”

“Horologium is the clock of a sleeping giant.” Viktor said it with such solid certainty, like a true storyteller, that Yuuri found himself believing his human (even though he knew that giants had long since gone extinct). “Her body is a landscape – literally! She sleeps under a blanket of grass, and we’ve built houses on her. But, one day, Horologium will tick to the right hour and she will wake up, just when we need her.”

“Why is she sleeping,” Yuuri asked in a murmur, partly because he could tell that Viktor wanted him to but mostly because he found himself wanting to know.

“Because she’s a day away from death. So she went to sleep, and when she wakes up it will be her last day.” 

“She has to die to live?” 

“We all do.” Viktor blinked, surprised by his own words. He washed them down with a long, galloping glug of beer. “But she’s living a million days over in her dreams. She’s happy. Happier than she ever was awake.” 

“Good,” Yuuri found himself saying, eyes drifting to the stars and sticking there. “I’m glad she’s happy.” 

Viktor’s arm – the one that Yuuri was using as a pillow – curved around, down, cupping Yuuri’s shoulders and easing him in closer. Yuuri shifted with the pull, content to just float on that bed of frostbitten grass, hugging onto Viktor and forgetting the rest of the world around them. For the moment, at least, Viktor wasn’t the Chosen One and Yuuri wasn’t a dragon, just as Viktor wasn’t a human. They were themselves, and that was all. 

The breeze erased the pendulum clock, but if Yuuri shut his eyes he could still see it. He touched his nose to Viktor’s shirt, and he could hear the flutter of the human’s heartrate pick up at the coldness. Smiling to himself, Yuuri pressed a fingertip to Viktor’s side, sending thin, weak veins of ice mapping across a small patch of Viktor’s skin in soft pulses. Viktor made a high-warm noise that came from the bridge of his nose. To Yuuri, it sounded like wonder. To Yuuri, it felt like _loveacceptancehome._ Like everything he had ever wanted or would ever want. 

“You haven’t flown in a while,” Viktor mumbled after a cloud of silence. Before Yuuri could catch up and respond, Viktor had jumped to his feet, draining his can of beer in the process. “Come on, _Drakonchik_ ,” and, _God,_ Yuuri adored that smile – so big that it had to curve into a heartshape just to be accommodated, “up you get.” Yuuri took the outstretched hand. “There we go. Wings out.” 

Yuuri’s wings obeyed the command without waiting for their owner’s permission. They creaked and groaned – it had been too long, Yuuri knew, since he’d last stretched them. They reached outwards, straining against their boundaries of bone and skin, the night trailing her fingertips over them in waves. Yuuri could feel the stars against the paperthin skin of his wings, and it was an embrace. A _welcome home._ He shut his eyes and saw forget-me-not-blue. _Before I’m a dragon I am Katsuki Yuuri._ He didn’t feel hungry. There wasn’t any bloodlust – he and Otabek had gone hunting that very afternoon – but still, his wings were a part of something darker, and Yuuri ached for some semblance of control. _Blue eyes blue eyes blue eyes._

His wings arched back into something that was almost like a bow. Yuuri opened his eyes, and there Viktor was, rosy-cheeked, beaming like a daffodil facing the sun. The Russian man’s hands were out at his sides, and it looked very much like the two of them were squaring up for some kind of dance. Maybe they were. 

Viktor stepped back, and then again, until his back brushed the edge of the clearing. He nodded, giving Yuuri a double thumbs up. 

Yuuri flexed his wings, gave them an experimental swell, getting a feel for the atmosphere. Viktor’s eyes were on him, and that was all the encouragement he needed. _Vitya likes seeing me fly it makes him happy and I only ever want to make him happy._  

So he beat his wings, once, twice, three times, his knees bent, a fourth beat and then – 

And then, nothing. Well, nothing other than a whip of wind curling its fingers through the surrounding trees and brushing back at Viktor’s hair. Yuuri tried again, curving his wings in on themselves slightly to better catch the wind but no, no, it just wasn’t _happening._ A bite of a frown digging into his face, Yuuri threw his shoulders. 

“ _Drakonchik.”_ Viktor’s voice was balmy as he jogged over, a concerned frown playing on his lips. “What’s wrong?” 

“I just.” Yuuri shook his head. “It’s not working.” And then, _oh god._ “What if I can’t fly anymore?” 

“Don’t be silly, Yuuri.” Viktor gloved his hands over Yuuri’s, and Yuuri hadn’t even realised that they’d been balled up into fists until they thawed into something softer. His wings drooped, trailing around him like shafts of nightsky. “It’s okay. You’re just out of practice. We,” yes, _we_ , “are just going to have to work extra hard to get back into the swing of things. Hey, seeing as we live here now, we can practice every day! We’ll have you up in the air again in no time!” 

Yuuri nodded, and it was a waterlogged thing. For the vast majority of his life, he’d wished so desperately for all traces of his dragonhood to disappear or get hacked off or evaporate, but now faced with the idea that some aspect of it had, it felt like grief. A nearby stream glazed and went breathless. 

But then Viktor was letting go of one of his hands in favour of tracing a thumb around Yuuri’s jaw, and there was nothing Yuuri could have done to prevent the melted purr of a sound that marbled from his lips. Their eyes met and _it’s okay even if I can’t fly right now Viktor will get me there again I know he will I love him I trust him I can do anything with him there._  

As soon as a smile slipped to his lips, Viktor was kissing him. It was light, but deep in all of the ways that mattered, and Yuuri shifted closer. His wings pricked up, the breeze of their ambient _inhale exhale_ motion tickling down Yuuri’s neck. It was instinct, the way his arm wound around Viktor’s waist. It, too, was instinct, the way his wings shifted from ambience to beating and no matter what Yuuri thought or did, he couldn’t get them to stop and _still_ Viktor was kissing him and it was all electricity, all alive again, and then. 

And then, Yuuri pulled away without stepping back. The vapour of their breath twined and twirled. When he spoke, their lips brushed. Yuuri found himself thinking that he wanted very much to always be this close to Viktor, for their universe to narrow down to just this. 

“I. I know I’ve hurt you-” 

“I forgive you.” Viktor’s voice was a bullet and it shot down all doubt. “I forgave you the second it happened, _Drakonchik.”_  

“Do you trust me?” 

“With everything.” Viktor blinked. “Always.” His smile, pink-lipped, softened into something serious. “Of course.” 

Yuuri nodded, first of all to Viktor and then to himself. His arm still hooked snugly around Viktor’s waist, Yuuri let his wings take over. They swooped and swelled, tumultuous as the sea, and then, there they were, the two of them, around five feet off of the ground. For a split second Viktor clung to Yuuri, but then Yuuri wrapped his other arm around Viktor in a seatbelt, and the human let go and it almost felt like _too much_ trust, but no, no, Yuuri had this, Yuuri wouldn’t drop him. Viktor was safe, and it was because of Yuuri. _I’ll always protect him_. 

They hovered there for a constellation of heartbeats, and then Yuuri’s wings thawed to a flutter. They both landed on their feet, the grass beneath them crunching. Yuuri put the rare success of it down to Viktor. 

Yuuri stepped back. Viktor was just staring at him, open-mouthed but with the corners of his lips tugged into a heavenward turn. He wasn’t blinking. Yuuri could hear his heartbeat, and it was strong, fast, a downpour on a too-hot day. The gummy ache in his cheeks told Yuuri that he had probably been smiling for a touch too long or too hard, but he couldn’t stop. Because, in that moment, yes, he was Katsuki Yuuri, but he was also a dragon. And – just in that moment, with Viktor looking at him like that, with his wings breathing and burning – he was proud of it.

Before Yuuri could say anything, Viktor was barrelling towards him, throwing his arms around him, hugging him hard enough to make Yuuri’s bones creak. It wasn’t just being hugged; it was being _beheld_. 

“ _Drakonchik_.” It was whispered, like a spell.  “I am going to buy you _so_ many spoons.”

  

* * *

  

“So _this_ is why you wanted them out of the house?” 

Yuri looked up from where he was knelt, fiddling about with his laptop on the coffee table, Makkachin licking at his left ear, Tsarina kneading her paws impatiently at his right knee, her claws getting caught in the thready rips of Yuri’s black jeans. Everything was shadowed in the jumpy orange of the fire burning in the grate, the flames whispering stories that only Otabek could hear. Yuri grinned at him, something an octave warmer than a smirk, and Otabek felt a different shade of fire. 

“I got Mila to charge it for me.” Yuri shrugged, turning his attention back to the laptop as he popped a disk in its tray. “The battery should last long enough for a movie.” 

“And the others had to be out for this _because?”_ Otabek’s voice trailed into cursive, and, okay, he _knew_ the reason. But still, teasing Yuri was fun. It was normal. It was soft. It was something Otabek hadn’t quite ever had before, and it felt warm in a way that didn’t burn. 

“Because Yuuri hates horror movies, Viktor’s one of those annoying shitheads who feels it’s necessary to give a running fucking commentary, and Phichit always ruins the ending. Seeing as Phichit was already out on ‘ _prophet business’,_ ” and Otabek had never seen air quotes have so much attitude, “I thought it was the perfect opportunity to ditch the other two losers.” 

Yuri clicked the mouse a few times, and suddenly the screen was invaded by a flock of zombies who looked more comical than scary. It bewildered Otabek, just a little bit, that Yuri would want to watch a horror movie when he could just look over at the couch and see the deadliest monster known to man. But, hey, if Yuri wanted plastic teeth and beetroot juice, then who was Otabek to stop him? 

Otabek watched as the slayer got to his feet and went around, flicking off the myriad LEDs Phichit had kitted the cabin out with (Yakov had, indeed, denied the prophet’s request for a generator on the grounds that going without modcons would _build character_ ). When the only light illuminating the room was the bounding, breathing arabesque of flames, Yuri dropped down next to Otabek, only to wince at the harsh bite of the sofa – no matter how many pillows and blankets they piled on it, it was still a rigid thing of droning wood that bit to the point of numbness. 

“Beka, lights, if you would.” 

Brown eyes flashed to the fire, and the flames shrivelled into embers. Still just as hot, but with a fraction of the light. In the almost-darkness, everything took on a waxy kind of quality. Dreamlike. 

Yuri clicked play. 

The movie opened with a firestorm of a scream, one that Otabek could have identified as being fake from several rooms away. At the sound, two things happened. The first was that Makkachin scattered off to her masters’ bedroom, undoubtedly to hide under the (approximately) five million blankets that Yuuri had accumulated for the Chosen One. The second was that Yuri’s hand slipped into Otabek’s, and what else could Otabek do other than knot their fingers together, give it a good squeeze. 

After the first few scenes, Otabek let himself zone out. Things had been good since the move to the cabin a few weeks ago; Yuuri looked less like he wanted to take a toaster in the bath, Viktor was almost completely healed, and, now that they were living together, sharing a room together, Otabek got to see a lot more of Yuri, which could only be a good thing. Every three nights or so, when the sleeplessness became too much, Yuri had taken to slipping into Otabek’s bed because, for some reason, Otabek made him feel safe in ways that neither of his self-proclaimed parents did. On such nights, neither of them would say anything. Nothing needed to be said. Yuri’s sleeping _was_ getting better, though; Otabek liked to think it was by virtue of his proximity. Of course, there were still nightmares, but Otabek would have Yuri awake and aware before Viktor could even burst into the room. There were still charcoal smudges etched under Yuri’s eyes but, Otabek thought, they weren’t quite as dark as they once had been. 

Tsarina nudged Otabek out of his thoughts via the method of nosing against his leg. He looked down at her, and it struck him just how much he owed the feline. It was Tsarina, then known as Puss, who had been the key to getting through to Yuri. If Otabek had been the kind of person to believe in miracles, he might have attached such a label to his – no, _their –_ cat. 

She threw her head over her shoulder, the nub of her nose pointing in the direction of the fireplace. She looked back up at her dragon, gave a particularly enunciated _meeeeow,_ and Otabek got it. He tilted his head at her, one eye squinting. _Really?_ The flick of her tail was close enough to a nod, so Otabek inhaled in a slow, floating kind of way, and the embers faded to sparks and then ceased to be anything. 

A few moments later, Yuri shivered. And, taking it as some kind of cosmic prompt, Otabek stretched an arm around the seventeen-year-old’s shoulders. He didn’t even have to pull to get Yuri to lean against him; it was as natural as breathing. If he shut his eyes he could hear Yuri’s heartbeat. It was slow and bassy. Something certain. Going nowhere fast, and that was good. 

Neither boy said anything during the movie, because sometimes silence can say enough. Towards the end, Otabek could feel Yuri’s weight getting heavier, heavier, heavier, until he lilted forwards and was asleep enough to not care that his nose was darting into Otabek’s shirt. The firebreather didn’t mind. Apart from, maybe, he did. Because, for Yuri to have just fallen asleep like _that_ , to let himself be so vulnerable, the younger teen must have been _exhausted_. But Yuri felt warm against him, and the weight of the slayer felt like memories, so Otabek chose to focus on that. 

Later, Yuri would shatter awake at the opening of the front door. Viktor would squeal _oh sorry did you two need more time we can go back out oh my god were you two cuddling?_ And Yuri, in return, would screech, with surprising venom for one asleep not a moment ago, _fuck off fuckface no we were not cuddling Beka just needed to rest his arms._ Most notably, perhaps, Yuuri would be smiling.  

 

* * *

 

 

The kitchen table had transformed into a night sky, dotted with a galaxy of spoons. It was a Sunday evening, the kind where the entire day seems to pack itself into those twilight hours because the rest has been lazed away, and Viktor couldn’t think of anything else he would rather be doing. 

Yes, he had one arm looped around Yuuri’s waist, and the dragon was half leaning into him as Yuuri surveyed his hoard, his fingers tiptoeing over each spoon, occasionally holding one up to give it a polish. Yuuri’s eyes were _shining_ , amethystine sunlight shining through whiskey, and Viktor was sorely tempted to take up oil painting because there was no way a photograph could ever do such a god-affirming sight justice. It was gentle, peaceful, mundane but in a colourful way.

Phichit was asleep on the sofa, and Viktor couldn’t help but marvel at his friend’s ability, no, _super power,_ to sleep on something so uncomfortable. The cabin was chilled, and Phichit was apparently using Makkachin as a blanket. 

It was chilled because Yuuri was in it, and Otabek wasn’t. When the two dragons were both at home, the overall temperature of the cabin sort of balanced out – but not quite, the difference tilting just in Yuuri’s favour, which Viktor loved because whenever he felt cold, whenever he shivered, it was like Yuuri was touching him even if he wasn’t and Viktor _always_ wanted to be touching Yuuri. But anyway. When the two dragons were in the cabin, the temperature evened out and there was a metaphor in that somewhere, Viktor thought. 

Otabek wasn’t in the cabin at that moment in time because, as Viktor could see if he looked out of the window, he was outside. With Yurio. Making sparks dance against the apricot sunset. They were holding hands. And suddenly, everything in Viktor felt pulled too tight because they were just _teenagers_ and they shouldn’t have _ever_ had to be soldiers. But no, it was more than that. It was the way Yurio was smiling, the way Otabek was looking at that smile, the way they were holding hands. Viktor couldn’t name what he was feeling, so he looked away. Suddenly, he felt really rather  _old_. 

Yuuri had since picked up a new spoon – a bulbous thing with _SOUP_ stamped across the hollow of the bowl – and was conscientiously polishing it, his teeth pressing into his lower lip as he concentrated. Viktor held him that little bit tighter.

“Thank you,” Viktor murmured, and there was something of the stream outside to it.

The only response he got was Yuuri tilting his head and blinking and _he has such amazing eyelashes everything about him is so perfect I love him so much._  

“Vitya?” Yuuri put the spoon down, cupping a hand over Viktor’s shoulder. The cold of it felt like warmth. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, yes. I just.” Viktor swallowed, and he could trace its journey down the back of his throat. “I love you, Yuuri. So much.” 

Yuuri’s cheeks fluttered into a blush and, _yes,_  Viktor kissed each of them in turn, before dotting a peck to the tip of his dragon’s nose. His fiancé’s eyes flicked with the movement, following the path of his lips, and Viktor always wanted Yuuri to be looking at him like that. Like it was just the two of them – not against the world. Not against anything. Just _being_. 

“I. I love you too, Viktor.” 

When Yuuri knotted their hands, two rings – one a slice of sea, the other a strip of imperfect tin – knocked gently together. The sound was inaudible to anyone who hadn’t already heard it.

  

* * *

 

Phichit Chulanont wasn’t the kind of person to hunger after peace and quiet, but in that moment, in _that_ kind of peace and quiet, he was perfectly happy to sit back on his _very comfortable_ couch and bask in it. 

It was the kind of quiet that isn’t silence – in the background, he could hear the gentle whirr-squeak of his beloved hamsters, in the cage he’d put in the corner of the living room. The peace was the warm sort; it felt like a hug. Because, just for a moment, everything was _perfect._ His friends were happy (and three of them, at least, were very much in love), Yakov was listening to him, and the cabin was feeling more like a home every day. On the mantelpiece rested a constellation of photographs; one of a much younger Phichit with a much younger Yuuri that had formerly resided opposite his front door; a group selfie of (as Phichit privately called them) The Chosen Family from Yurio’s sixteenth birthday; a picture that Phichit himself had taken of Yuuri and Viktor taking Makkachin for a walk against a pyrrhic sunset – if he squinted, Phichit could just make out lines of frost slithering across the back of Viktor’s neck. On the coffee table was a vase, and in the vase was a cluster of Yuuri’s finest spoons. If Phichit had looked out of the window, he would have seen a motorbike propped against the outside wall. 

_Yes,_ Phichit thought, _I haven’t done too badly._  

So he shut his eyes, basking in the tidal quiet. Viktor and Yuuri were out in the forest, doing things that they assumed Phichit didn’t know about – but, hey, if they wanted the illusion of privacy, Phichit was happy to give it to them. It was the least they deserved. Yurio and Otabek, on the other hand, had gone to St Petersburg and, as Yurio had taken pains to drill into everyone present at the time, it definitely _wasn’t_ a date. Save for the animals, Phichit had the cabin to himself. 

He shut his eyes, and let himself doze. Tiredness was gnawing at his bones, making everything heavy. It wasn’t that he was having trouble sleeping, but rather that he had been rigorously checking the stars at night, every night, hoping to catch wind of something, anything, but more specifically, of a _change._ Because he only and always wanted for Yuuri to be happy. But Phichit shook his head; now wasn’t the time for that. Now was the time for living in the present – or, rather, _napping_ in the present.

Just when everything heavy had started to fade into featherlightness, Makkachin harrumphed through from Viktor and Yuuri’s room like a great big sepia stormcloud. She was barking, the sound guttural, right from the back of her throat and, had it been quieter, Phichit might have almost classed it as a snarl. Her claws scratched against the front door and, sure enough, a split second later, a vacuous, hollow knock boomed in from the outside. 

Phichit scrambled to his feet, looking around for some kind of weapon. Yurio’s _urumi_ was hanging, coiled up, on the coatrack, but Phichit had seen others practice with such an instrument before – he’d be more likely to hurt himself with it than any opponent. He dashed into Viktor and Yuuri’s room, swooped up Yuuri’s _shashka,_ and then returned to the front door. Makkachin was still barking, and it was in the sound that Phichit knew it wasn’t one of their pack waiting on the outside. 

“ _Shush_ , Makka,” he whispered, a waver to his voice even if he _knew_ now wasn’t his time to die. _The stars can always change their minds._ “It’s okay, baby girl.” She jutted her head around, and Phichit felt a shock of surprise at seeing her teeth bared; it was easy to forget that such a soft creature had them. “Uncle Phichit’s here. I won’t let any mean ol’ dragons hurt you. I promise. And I don’t break my promises, do I?” He savoured the words as he stepped forwards, reaching out to the door handle. Makkachin bundled behind him, and having her to protect made Phichit feel that little bit braver. He cleared his throat, and it felt like swallowing cobwebs. In a clear, sharp voice, he called out, “who’s there? Are you a friend?” 

“If I wasn’t a friend, Chulanont, I would have ripped this door off its hinges already.” 

Phichit dropped his borrowed _shashka_ to the floor and swung the door open because he knew that voice, knew it shouldn’t have been so breathy, knew the serrated edge of the tone. 

“ _Sara._ ” 

Because there she was, Sara Crispino, as awful as she was beautiful.

As with all dragons gearing up for something, she was kitted out in a leather that was more than leather; a skirt that stretched around her, cut off halfway down her thighs over leggings of the same material; an unzipped jacket revealing a charcoal coloured t-shirt underneath. The right arm of the jacket was torn at the shoulder, hanging on by a hinge, and where Phichit should have been able to see skin the colour of warm sand all he could see was blood. There were patches of the night-black jacket that were darker than others, and Phichit knew why. 

Her face, which was normally dominated by her lunar-large eyes, was obscured by a wound on her cheek. It looked as though someone had pierced their nails through the soft skin, prized it apart and peeled it back like a peach. The injury almost looked like a graze, speckled with varying shades of red-black, but it wasn’t bleeding. And then, _oh_ , Phichit realised, _it’s a burn._

Phichit reached out as though to steady Sara, acting on instinct, but no, she didn’t fall forwards. She wasn’t even swaying on her feet, as Phichit imagined he might be if he were in her situation. She was just stood there, feet shoulder-width apart, and her eyes were the purest purple Phichit had ever seen. Burning.

“What happened?” Phichit’s eyes were volleying about, and he couldn’t stop looking at her. Everything in him was shot through with bleach because _this wasn’t supposed to happen I didn’t know she would get hurt._ “Sara, are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” She stepped through the front door, not needing an invitation. With the ambient sway of her arms, a fresh pulse of blood bubbled forth from her shoulder. “They figured me out.” She gestured to the burn on her cheek, her hand fluttering over it like calligraphy. “They’re powerful, Phichit.” 

“Are they coming, Sara? Are they coming for us?” His words were rushed footsteps, running, breathless. Because  _no no everything is so perfect right now just a little bit longer please I'm not read for Yuuri to hate me._

“No,” she winced, gritting her teeth as she tore the arm of her jacket off. She threw it to the floor and Makkachin, who had been shadowing behind Phichit, pounced on it, digging her teeth into the leather. Phichit was relieved to see that the wound wasn’t as bad as he had first suspected – it was deep, yes, but it wasn’t big. “Not yet. Soon, though. I’d give it a couple of weeks. Three at most, before they’re ready.” 

“And how many are there?” As he spoke, Phichit guided the dragon to the couch. Sara went easily with him, watching with a dull kind of fascination as blood trickled down her arm, making a map of her skin. 

“Ten dragons. Maybe fifteen slayers.” 

Phichit forced himself to nod. His legs carried him to the kitchenette area, to get the first aid kit from the cupboard. It wasn’t much of a kitchen – the table taken from his house along with his chairs, a large camping stove hooked up to a rather ominous looking gas canister, and a few counters that doubled as drawers and/or cupboards (one of which was dedicated solely to Yuuri’s spoon hoard, and to open it was to be unleash a tidal wave of cutlery). As he reached into the cupboard he couldn’t help but let his mind wander because _ten dragons._ One dragon, acting alone, if it were powerful enough would be enough to take down St Petersburg. And they were, they were powerful; Phichit had sent Sara to spy on them under the impression that none of them would be strong enough to _burn_ another dragon like that. The number of slayers wasn’t too much of a surprise, but still – fifteen highly skilled killers joining forces with ten of the deadliest predators to ever walk the Earth was not a thought that made Phichit feel particularly cheerful. 

_You knew there was going to be bloodshed_ , he told himself. But still, hearing it from someone else’s mouth added a new dimension to the reality of it. The stars had not changed their minds, and Phichit, who had never _really_ hated anybody in all of his life, hated them for it. 

Sara sat perfectly still as he cleaned her up, sutured her wound, rubbed a homemade lotion over the burn that his mother had given him the recipe for. It had been one of the first things he’d learnt, and mixing it up had felt like comfort, like childhood, like not having the world on his shoulders. 

“Is it true?” Sara asked, making her cheek twitch as Phichit finished applying the cream to her burn. It sizzled as the burn absorbed it, drawing out the draconic fire. “That your friend, the Ice Dragon-” 

“His name is Yuuri.” He hadn't meant for it to sound so sharp.

“Yuuri, then. Is it true what they’re saying about him?” 

“It depends what they’re saying.” Phichit smiled, and it felt like an ache. Because _ten dragons and fifteen slayers._ “If it’s that he is deathly afraid of microwaves, then yes. It’s true.” 

“Phichit.” The purple of her eyes filtered down into something darker, the line of her mouth drawing downwards at the corners. “I’ve risked my life for you and this prophecy of yours.” 

“You’re the one who found me,” Phichit pointed out, feeling unjustly accused. Because, yes, he’d put out a call for help, left the right signs for the right kind of people, and Sara had answered, just as the stars had said she would, talking about the importance of _doing the right thing._ Which, it just so happened, turned out to be synonymous with _let me do the most dangerous job you’ve got going,_ although not in those exact words. “I mean, I am grateful for what you’ve done. Of course I am. But you got into this of your own free will.” 

“You’re a _prophet_ , Chulanont. Don’t go talking to me about _free will_.” She tossed her head so that her hair would flick in cursive, and it felt like punctuation. Phichit had to admit she had a point. “So _is_ it true? Is Yuuri going to bring peace? Because that’s what the slayers are saying. The dragons, too. They’re scared that the rest of us are going to turn into peace-lovers as well. They also seem to think that Yuuri has the firepower – _ice_ power – to take them down. Phichit, they’re _scared_.” A pause. “Should they be?” 

Phichit thought for a moment, not about their motivation because none of this was new knowledge to him, but about how to answer her question. She did deserve the truth, they all did, but there were rules Phichit had to stick to and if he hadn’t broken them for Yuuri then he definitely wasn’t going to break them for Sara Crispino. He could live with her hating him. 

So he just nodded, once, and said in a voice that wasn’t quite his own, “at this point, Sara, everyone should be.” 

“Then I want to fight. I want to stand with you.” There was a smile on her face that was only a smile if you looked at it from the right angle. “Please.” 

“I was hoping,” or, rather, he had _known_ , “you would say that. The St Petersburg Shield is open to dragon allies.” 

“So peace _is_ possible then?” Her eyes were wide, bright, a brilliant violet colour that dulled everything around them. 

A plume of a smile curved at Phichit’s face. _Clever girl._   

“Sara Crispino,” Phichit rolled his syllables, playing at grandeur, “welcome on board. I have just the training partner for you.” 

He held his hand out to her, and Sara shook it. She had a strong handshake. When she released her grip, Phichit’s palm was sooty.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. I'm no medical expert, but I'm aware that Viktor's recovery time is probably very rushed/unrealistic - but let's just imagine that the Shield has special healing mojo going for them.
> 
> 2\. Why is Yurio so prickly about moving to the cabin? The main reason for his (over)reaction is that, as briefly touched on, their St Petersburg home is the only home he's ever really known, it's where all of his happy memories are - the only other 'home' he can remember having is the Shield, so I think he's subconsciously a bit scared that leaving home will mean leaving behind this idea of family that he's built for himself, that he's opened up to. Also, given the fact that The Accident happened so recently, it's understandable that he'd want to be at the place he thinks of as home.
> 
> 3\. Yuuri is still feeling very anxious with regards to Viktor; he's scared that he might hurt Viktor again, hence the fact he hasn't been kissing/hugging Viktor much. This is also manifesting itself in the form of many blankets. Yuuri knows that he's extremely cold, he knows that this can be uncomfortable (or even dangerous) to humans, and it's also an integral part of his dragonhood (if that makes sense??) which is why he is so ardently trying to keep Viktor warm. Similarly, this is also why he hasn't flown in a while - his wings are a draconic part of him, and it's the draconic part of him that led him to hurt Viktor. Of course, it is then Viktor who makes him like himself again. 
> 
> 4\. I'm really bad at articulating time, so; the first two sections are on the same day; sections three and four are a couple of weeks later, but on the same night as one another; section five is separate day; section six, again, is a separate day, maybe a week or so after section five.
> 
> 5\. I was being all pretentious and tried to whack some foreshadowing in there with the constellation Horologium (and Viktor's little story). As you might have noticed, there's only three chapters of this fic left to go, and one of those is an epilogue chapter, so time is running short. The metaphorical clock is ticking. 
> 
> 6\. Viktor kind of sees himself as Yuuri's coach when it comes to flying, and that's something I wanted to carry over from the anime, especially the way that Yuuri's ability to fly is inextricably linked to their love for one another, and in how, in this chapter, it is Viktor's faith in him that makes Yuuri believe in himself/his flying ability. 
> 
> 7\. Watching a movie with Otabek isn't the only reason Yurio wanted a Viktuuri Date Night. He encouraged them to go out because he knows how much they love each other and, really, he loves that they love each other. As always, deep down, Yurio just wants his parents to be happy. 
> 
> 8\. In section five, when Viktor likes the idea of 'just _being_ '. I wanted that to show that he isn't so obsessed with the idea of adventure/heroism anymore. Having Yuuri, loving Yuuri, their little family, is enough for him now. Having Yuuri in his life has made normality into an adventure, and that's enough for Viktor. He is happy with his life, independent of being the Chosen One.
> 
> 9\. Yuuri, Viktor and Yurio are, as Phichit calls them, The Chosen Family in more ways than just in terms of the Prophecy - they chose one another, the three of them _chose_ each other as their family, and I think that maybe means something.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading this chapter, I hope it was okay, and a great big thank you to everyone who has commented/left kudos thus far - it really means a lot! <3
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter: Mila makes a new friend, Yakov makes a call, Phichit rallies the troops, Viktor gets jealous, Otabek gets cold feet, and the end begins.


	14. A/N - How the Fic Should Have Ended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an A/N with four main points:   
> 1\. This fic is now discontinued.  
> 2\. Many apologies.  
> 3\. A full, detailed plan of the final two chapters and epilogue.   
> 4\. More apologies.

Hello!

 

A couple of people here, and on Tumblr, have asked me what was happening with this fic – I’d honestly hoped it would just fade into obscurity and be forgotten! But, as writer, I do owe you guys a narrative debt. When you started reading it formed a contract – that I would see this through to the end. Unfortunately, that will not be the case. I am very sorry. Here are my reasons for not continuing:

 

  1. I took a break from writing Destiny May Ride With Us because I had a lot of university coursework hand-ins, which I had to focus on. I’m a Journalism and Creative Writing student, so my coursework was very writing-orientated – so I needed a bit of a break afterwards! (Side note: I had to write/research a proposal for my third year dissertation – I am doing it on fanfiction, with a focus on _Supernatural, Buffy The Vampire Slayer,_ and _Yuri!!! On Ice._ It’s going to be an 8,000 word gay feminist extravaganza.)
  2. I did have around 7k words of the following chapter written up. Which gibbon decided to delete the entire document (125k of fic) in a depressive/anxious rage? This gibbon. This gibbon did. I did intend to start writing this fic again, but when I opened my laptop to find I’d deleted it, I had a crisis moment and have decided it’s a sign that I need to move on.
  3. Because I have left it so long since I last wrote for this fic, I feel like I’ve lost the various threads of it. If I were to continue, it wouldn’t be the same as before, I think.



 

And there a few other reasons too, that I can’t really put into words.

 

So, this fic is now discontinued, but, for anyone who might be interested, I have a pretty detailed plan for the following chapter, which I thought, by way of apology, I would share with you here. Also, a couple of people asked for it – I hope it doesn’t disappoint! (This is completely unmoderated, and as I had it written out for myself; this is how I plan my stuff)

 

** CHAPTER 14 **

 

** Section One – Mila’s POV; 1,500 words **

****

  1. Yakov introduces Sara to the team and Mila is all starry-eyed (viktor ships it)
  2. Mila goes up to do the whole ‘first female Russian slayer’ spiel but her words get all caught in her throat, awkwardness and giggles ensue (her intro to georgi is noteworthy bc he is more accepted and accepting stress this in the commentary)
  3. Starts training with Sara, showing the dragon her mad axe skills, Sara is obviously impressed
  4. As they spar, they chatter 
    1. Sara is staying in the city (this is because she is not core part of Prophecy team – the dragon army doesn’t need to be in the forest because they can get there in a jiffy)
    2. Sara’s brother (Mickey)
    3. Her motives
  5. Mila could just listen to her all day
  6. When they are dismissed, she asks Sara if she’d like to go for a coffee and Sara says yes



 

** Section Two – Yakov’s POV; 800 words **

****

  1. Yakov is on the phone, gets turned down by the Cairo Shield leader dude
  2. Crosses it off on his notepad – it’s the latest in a long line
  3. Has vodka from his globe bar, and muses over Phichit’s latest ramblings whilst looking at Lilia’s picture (sees her in the slayers (imagines them as like his children??) but then sees himself in Viktor)
  4. Thinks about his slayers, parental spot for Yurio (grandpa is out there, has a collection of letters proving it, but hasn’t shared them with Yurio because the Shield needs Yurio – it’s his one big regret)
  5. Has another drink, and tries another number 
    1. Explains it all without mentioning the good dragons
    2. Person points out the times when prophecies have been wrong, and that Shields keep to their own jurisdictions
    3. Declined again
  6. It’s gonna be a long night



 

 

** Section Three – Viktor’s POV; 2,500 **

****

  1. Just chillin in the cabin, cuddling bae on the uncomfy sofa, Phichit is tense AF reading all different charts etc whilst Yurio is trying to wind him up, being snarky, trying to impress Otabek but Otabek is kind of distant
  2. Knock on the door, Phichit springs up, suddenly all smiles
  3. Opens the door and there is Minami, heading a little tribe of rebel dragons 
    1. Michele is one of them, giving Phichit hell about taking his sister
    2. Others include Emil, Christophe and Guang Hong – but there are plenty of unnamed dragons too
  4. They are all there to stand with the Shield, if they will be granted immunity; they want peace too, they are tired of living half-lives
  5. Viktor is there with his _shashka_ , feeling inadequate again because they are dragons and why would Yuuri want a human compared to an awesome mythical creature???
  6. But then “where is he sorry I’m late where’s my brother”
  7. And Mari pushes through the crowd, and Yuuri just stares at her, too shocked for tears, and Viktor is one step away from telling her to leave bc she is upsetting his sweetheart and Yurio is giving it all the mouth bc he is lowkey fiercely protective of his dragon papa 
    1. Phichit gives him a _look_ though and Viktor knows things are okay
  8. He breaks the ice by saying hi I’m your bro’s fiancé and one true love 
    1. She eyes him over
    2. Shake hands
  9. Suddenly Yuuri barrels over and hugs Mari 
    1. Mari: I couldn’t find you they told me you were dead so I ran away and then Minami found me
  10. It’s hard for Yuuri, but the Chosen Family are right by his side
  11. Phichit gives them a moment, and then gives a _welcome on board_ spiel



 

 

** Section Four – Yuuri’s POV; 1,000 **

****

  1. After a day of training w/ dragons and slayers
  2. Viktor was going particularly hard
  3. Yuuri can tell something is wrong
  4. Viktor is all like ‘let’s go buy spoons and have a date night oh look at my _shashka_ ’
  5. Yuuri stops and says _I love you_
  6. Viktor: Even though I’m not a dragon?
  7. Roll-reversal kind of thing



 

 

** Section Five – Yurio’s POV; 2,000 **

****

  1. Otayuri and Tsarina in the forest
  2. Yurio is kind of acting like a lovesick puppy but Otabek’s being really distant
  3. Otabek is dismissive of something Yurio says, and because Yurio is really a fragile flower he’s in an immediate state of crisis 
    1. _Oh god he doesn’t want me he’s gonna leave I knew it I knew it_
  4. O: _I’ve been thinking_
    1. Y: Shit shit shit shit
  5. _O: And this could get pretty dangerous. Look, they’ve already got an army of dragons, they don’t need me_
  6. Y: _please don’t go_ and he knows he sounds ridiculously needy and clingy
  7. This clearly hits Otabek very deeply
  8. Otabek, after a moment of just staring intensely at each other; _you know I was going to end that sentence with let’s runaway together there’s no way I’d ever fucking leave you behind_
  9. Otabek goes to kiss him but Yurio is _like fuck off no you can’t seriously think I’d abandon my pack_
  10. Otabek looks him over and smiles and just says _of course not_
  11. _Good and if you fucking try to leave I’ll hunt you down and kill you_
  12. They’re about to kiss but then Otabek gets all agitated and is looking around
  13. _Beka what is it?_
  14. _I can smell them. They’re here._



 

 

Unfortunately, my plans for the finale chapter and the epilogue were not typed up – or if they were, I deleted them too. I have the rough shape of them, however. The dragons/slayers split to cover various areas of the forest – the enemy go there rather than St Petersburg because they can sense that’s where Yuuri is. One cell is Otabek, Yurio and Yakov. They get ambushed by a large group of rogue slayers; they handle them pretty well, especially with Otabek on side. Yurio is laughing (a nervous kind of ‘phew we are still alive haha of course we are’) but then another rogue slayer comes of out nowhere, and Yakov has to throw himself in the way to save Yurio, getting himself killed in the process (this was meant to be redemption for whatever shady shit he may have done in the past). As he’s dying, he confesses about Yurio’s grandpa. More slayers come, and Yurio’s pretty shook so he’s not on top game – long story short, he loses an eye, which kind of kick-starts something in Otabek and he incinerates the attackers before taking Yurio to the cabin for treatment.

 

Yuuri, Viktor, Phichit, Sara, Mila, and Georgie make up another, main cell. The evil dragons rock up and are just like ‘look, this doesn’t have to be a war. Just hand the Chosen One over.’ Viktor, obviously not wanting his friends to suffer, moves to step forward despite Yuuri grabbing onto his arm. The head dragon just laughs and is like, ‘not you. The _actual_ Chosen One,’ and points at Yuuri. Obviously, this is not going to happen, and a fight ensues. Yuuri is reluctant to hurt anyone, but then a dragon goes for Viktor so, of course, Yuuri _flies_ over and destroys it, and it’s nothing like any of them there, on either side, have ever seen before. Fighting stops because bad dragons are like _holy shit what the fuck what the fuck_ , much to the Head Dragon’s dismay, and the Head Dragon challenges Yuuri to a one-on-one fight, which Yuuri agrees to despite Viktor yelling at him not to. Yuuri is really no match for the Head Dragon dude, and is getting absolutely hammered into the ground (Phichit and Georgi are holding Viktor back, which was meant to show that Georgi has changed and is a fully integrated part of the team). But then the Head Dragon tries to breathe fire at Yuuri (it’s been weapons and fists thus far) and something strange happens. Instead of getting incinerated Yuuri just burns (any Doctor Who fans? I was thinking something similar to Rose at the end of modern season one, when she looks into the heart of the TARDIS) and it’s this beautiful, majestic thing. Because Yuuri is special, he kind of absorbs some of the Head Dragon’s huge, awesome power from the fire. Fighting resumes, but it isn’t even really a fight anymore and within seconds, Yuuri is about to finish it, to kill the leader, but instead he shows mercy and tells him to leave and never come back. The Head Dragon agrees, but as he leaves, he picks up a sword and charges at Viktor (knowing that he can’t hurt Yuuri, but that killing Viktor would have the desired effect). Viktor dies (this is what Phichit had been stressing about so much; he knew that Viktor would die, that he would have to die for Yuuri to realise his full potential, but Phichit saw him as staying dead). Yuuri clicks his fingers and the Head Dragon incinerates, but instead of like drifting away as ash, he drifts away as a spray of ice. Yuuri then rushes to Viktor’s side, and everyone assumes he’s in shock because Yuuri isn’t crying. But Yuuri is kind of like all powerful in that moment, and he knows he can fix it. He kisses Viktor, breathes him back to life. He then tells the evil dragons that the humans of Russia are under his protection, and that they spread the word. But just to make sure, he clicks his fingers again, and the dragons – the most powerful dragons in the world – are extinguished; they no longer have access to fire. Viktor declares it a victory. He and Yuuri hug; for the first time, Viktor doesn’t feel physically cold touching Yuuri.

 

The epilogue would be a six-month-later catch up with the characters and would have gone something like this:

  * Mila, Sara and Georgi are still at the St Petersburg Shield, Georgi and Sara specialising in teaching slayers how to work side-by-side with dragons; Mila, meanwhile, has become the head of the Shield, and is championing a foreign exchange program as a means to increase co-operation between Shields. Mila and Sara are in the infancy of dating. Georgi has never had so many friends.
  * Phichit and Minami are travelling the world trying to convert dragons to their side, with high success rates. Their latest convert is a Swiss dragon called Chris.
  * Something changed about Viktor that day on the battlefield. When Yuuri breathed him back to life, he was sharing his powers. Meaning that Viktor can now manipulate ice as Yuuri can, which Viktor thinks is an absolute hoot. Yuuri is coaching him on using his new power. They are in the forest, at their pond, they both touch the skin of the water and it freezes. They ‘draw’ skates for each other, and skate together. Neither are still a part of the Shield, but Mila often consults them.
  * Yurio has recovered, and now wears an eyepatch. He has read Yakov’s letters from his grandpa, and has discovered that Grandpa Nikolai is living out his twilight years in sunny Barcelona. Having lost an eye, he is no longer fit for service with the Shield (although he could have stayed if he had fought for it – he is subconsciously glad to be out). So he and Otabek are going to motorcycle through Europe until they get to Barcelona. This is where the fic ends, with Viktor, Yuuri, and Phichit (who has briefly returned) waving them off. It’s pretty emotional, with Yurio even walking up to Yuuri and giving him a hug. As Yurio and Otabek ride off, Viktor asks Phichit what will happen to Yurio and Otabek. Phichit just gives him this smug sort of look and says, ‘you don’t think you’re the only one with a Prophecy, do you?’ and swans off. Victor turns to Yuuri and, worrying like a motherhen, says, ‘do you think they’ll be okay?’ Yuuri puts an arm around Viktor’s waist and replies with, ‘we were.’ They kiss. Fin.



 

 

Again, I’m sorry for not finishing this fic, and I’m sorry if I’m not allowed to post an announcement like this as a ‘chapter’ (I’m not 100% sure of AO3 etiquette), but I hope this clears up how the fic would have ended. I also apologise for not responding to comments in my absence - but I promise that I'll respond to any new comments from here on out!

 

Thank you so, so much, for going on this fic journey with me – it certainly was an adventure whilst it lasted!

 

 


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